I accidentally read a message between my husband and his best friend and discovered, in horror, the reason I haven’t been able to have a child for the past five years…

I used to believe that a family’s happiness is measured by the laughter of children. My marriage to Hùng began with a pure love, and I thought we would build a full, warm home together with children. But deep inside, I carried a constant, smoldering worry — a psychological burden only I knew: before I married Hùng, I had experienced reproductive health problems.

That worry became a continual torment. Whenever I saw him gently playing with our friends’ children, a sharp pain would stab my heart. I blamed myself, thinking I was stealing his chance to be a father, making our marriage incomplete. I secretly went for checkups, quietly visiting hospitals alone because I didn’t want him to see my weakness and despair.

The doctor said my condition wasn’t too serious; if I stayed mentally relaxed and ate properly, the chances of getting pregnant were still high. Those words were like a faint ray of light in the darkness, sparking hope inside me. But after five years of marriage, that hope slowly faded. Each failed pregnancy test plunged me into a deeper pit of disappointment, and my self-blame grew even stronger. I went from clinic to clinic, took all kinds of medicine, tried every method, searching for a miracle. Late at night I would lie beside Hùng and cry silently. My tears soaked the pillow; I felt pity for him because he had been so patient and never once complained. He always comforted me, holding my hand tightly and saying, “As long as I have you, I’m happy enough.” His words were both a consolation and a pain, because I knew he also longed for a complete home like any other man.

Everything collapsed for me one fateful afternoon. Hùng hurried off to work and forgot his phone. When I went to bring it down for him, I saw a message on the screen from Tùng, his closest friend. Curiously, I opened it. Line after line appeared, and my heart seemed to stop. Pain spread through my whole body; I felt as if I were being crushed.

Hùng had admitted to Tùng that he was the one who couldn’t have children. “The doctor said my chances of being a father are zero,” he wrote. “I knew this before I married her, but I didn’t dare say anything.” The more I read, the more I trembled. Hùng had been silent while I blamed myself; he had avoided me whenever I suggested we go get tested together. He had left me to fight the pain and despair alone.

The truth grew even more cruel as I read further. Hùng had agreed with Tùng to have Tùng approach me and make me fall in love with him so that Tùng could have a child with me. “I don’t want to lose her,” Hùng wrote, “but I also can’t keep living like this.” Those words were like a knife thrust straight into my heart. I could not believe that the man I loved and trusted could plan something so ruthless.

My tears welled up and ran down my cheeks. I trembled as I read and re-read those cold messages, as if they were demons gnawing at my soul. “I have been living in a false marriage,” I told myself, “a marriage built on deception.” He let me carry the stigma of infertility, sent me alone from hospital to hospital, made me swallow bitter pills. He would rather let his parents and relatives blame me than admit the truth.

I used to think I would leave him — accept a divorce so he could find another woman who could give him children. But now everything inside me felt shattered. He planned to “give his wife” to his best friend to hide the truth about himself. I no longer saw him as my husband, my support; I saw only a coward, someone who had betrayed me in the cruellest way.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I sat on the sofa staring at his sleeping face. His lips moved slightly; his expression looked peaceful, but deep inside I knew that peace was a lie. I wondered, did he think about my feelings at all? Did he know how much I had suffered? Did he know how hard I had tried to give him a child?

I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t keep living beside a man who had destroyed my trust. I had written the divorce papers and left them in the drawer. I thought I would wait until I had the courage to leave, to begin a new life without deceit. But I knew the day had come. I was no longer the woman I used to be. I no longer trusted him.

The next morning I woke early and made him a cup of coffee. He still thought everything was normal. He came out of the bathroom and said, “My love, I’m sorry I forgot my phone yesterday. I left it behind so my friend messaged me — you don’t need to worry about it.” I looked at him; there was no longer love in my eyes, only coldness and distance. He noticed the change and his face tightened.

I took the phone from his jacket pocket and put it on the table. “Did you read the messages?” I asked, my voice dry and emotionless. He looked at the phone, then at me. He understood. He didn’t need me to say it. He lowered his head. His silence was an admission. He had left me to face the pain alone, and now he left me to face the truth alone.

I cried, tears streaming down my face. “Do you know how much I’ve suffered? Do you know how much I’ve blamed myself, how many bitter pills I swallowed? Do you know how many nights I cried alone?” I asked, my voice full of desperation. “And you, the husband I trusted, the man I loved, plotted such heartless things.” I couldn’t finish the sentence; the words stuck in my throat.

He lifted his head; his eyes were red, filled with anguish. “It’s not what you think, Thanh. I… I was so afraid. I was afraid you’d leave me, that you wouldn’t love me anymore if you knew the truth. I was afraid of losing you.” He spoke with desperation. He explained that those messages were not a scheme to “trade a wife.” He and Tùng had been looking into a medical option — an assisted reproductive procedure — but with Tùng as a sperm donor, not to deceive me in the cruel way I had imagined. He knew it sounded crazy, but because he loved me so much and longed to see me happy, he couldn’t think straight.

That truth did not ease my pain. It only made me hurt more. I was hurt because he had deceived me; his cowardice had forced me to endure needless suffering. “Do you think lies can build a happy family?” I asked, my voice full of disappointment. “You put me into a meaningless play, Hùng.”

I stood up, went to the bedroom, and took the divorce papers I had prepared from the drawer. I placed them on the table in front of him and said, “You have destroyed my trust. I cannot continue living in a marriage I no longer have faith in.” He looked at the papers; his face went white. He said nothing, only stared at me, his eyes red with pain and regret. I knew in that moment it was the end of our marriage.

But as I turned to leave, he hurriedly grabbed my hand and pulled me into his arms. “Thanh, please don’t go. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was too cowardly and stupid. But Thanh, I love you. I really love you. Please give me a chance to make it right, to start over. We can find another solution. We can adopt. We can do anything, as long as we stay together.” His voice was pleading.

His words made me pause. I had suffered so much, been so desperate, that I had forgotten an important thing: he was also a victim of his own cowardice. He had also endured a quiet pain — the sorrow of a man who could not fulfill the role of a father. He had been so terrified that he acted foolishly. I saw remorse in his eyes, and I glimpsed a bit of the man I once loved.

That night we talked for hours, pouring out all the feelings we had hidden for years. He told me about his fears, about the times he saw me crying and how much it tormented him. He said that whenever I went to appointments alone, he followed from afar and suffered seeing me exhausted and despairing. He admitted that he had once thought of leaving so I could find another man who could give me a child. But he could not leave because he loved me too much.

That truth left me both pained and moved. I hurt because he had deceived me, but I was also touched by his love. I realized we had grown too distant, too silent, so much so that each of our pains became a deep chasm between us. We had been so focused on our own suffering that we forgot the other’s.

After that night, we began again together. We went to a counseling center where we spoke openly about everything we had hidden. We faced his pain, his cowardice, and the deception he had created. Together we made a decision: we would not pursue a child at all costs. We would let things happen naturally, and if we still could not have a child, we would adopt an orphan.

Two years later, we had a child. She was a lovely, bright, lively little girl. We named her An Bình, hoping she would live a peaceful life, free from the pains we had known. She brought new color and warmth to our lives, the completeness I had longed for. More than that, Hùng and I had a renewed marriage — one without deceit or cowardice, built on love and understanding.

Now every evening we sit together and tell each other about our day. We have learned to share everything, from the smallest things to our deepest wounds. We have learned to love each other sincerely, without lies. Our child sleeps soundly in her crib, and I know that happiness is not a child alone — happiness is a home where a man loves me, and a love that has been tested and prevailed. Happiness is not an outcome; it is a journey — a journey of love and forgiveness.