Working Abroad Day and Night, Saving Every Penny, I Sent My Wife 40 Million VND Each Month for Infertility Treatment. But When I Returned Home and Saw a Child in the Yard, I Pretended to Know Nothing—Then Sent Twice the Money Along With a Large Black Bag. My Wife Panicked, Called Me Back, and Handed Me 3 Billion…

“The day I returned home, standing before the old rusty gate, I reached out to touch the lock when I heard the sound of pure laughter echoing from the yard. Looking at the three-year-old child running around happily, I froze. The boy had deep brown eyes, a high nose bridge—exactly like… someone else.”

My name is Hùng, 36 years old, born into a poor farming family in Nghệ An. On my wedding day, I had nothing but two hands and a heart full of responsibility. Loan—my wife—was a hardworking woman who agreed to marry me even though all I had was a half-finished, roofless house.

We lived together for five years without children. Both sides of the family pressured us, scolded us. Some people whispered that my wife “couldn’t give birth.” Others told me to “check my bloodline.” I took Loan to the doctor, and the conclusion was secondary infertility. She cried all night, and I held her hand tightly, saying:

“I’ll earn money. We’ll fix this. Don’t worry.”

That year, I went to Japan as an overseas worker. Leaving my wife behind in our poor hometown, I promised to send money every month—and I kept that promise. I worked two, sometimes three jobs: cleaning factories in the morning, construction work in the afternoon, supermarket deliveries at night. Saving every penny, I sent exactly 40 million VND each month for her treatment. Many times, when I saw her swollen eyes during video calls, I wanted to give it all up and fly straight home.

Four years later, I finished my contract and returned. I didn’t tell her—I wanted to surprise her.

But instead, I was the one surprised.

That afternoon, I stood at the gate. The house looked freshly painted, cleaner and more spacious than before. Just as my hand touched the lock, I heard soft laughter from the backyard.

I leaned over to look.

A little boy, about three years old, was playing with a plastic ball. He was adorable, with fair skin, slightly curly hair, a tall nose—features that didn’t resemble me at all, nor Loan. I stood frozen for a long moment, unable to believe my eyes.

Loan stepped out carrying a steaming bowl of porridge. When she saw me, she froze like stone, her eyes filled with panic.

I said nothing, only smiled.
“I’m home.”

Her voice trembled as she whispered:
“Why… why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

I gently replied:

“I wanted to surprise you… but it seems I’m the one who’s surprised.”

She stayed silent. I kept my eyes on the little boy, who ran to hide behind his mother’s legs. I didn’t ask, didn’t get angry, didn’t interrogate. I only said:

“I’m just here to grab a few things, then I’ll stay at Nam’s place for a while. If you need anything… just call.”

That night, I rented a small room nearby. A week later, I texted Loan:

“I’ll keep sending money every month—double the amount before. Make sure the child gets a proper education.”

Along with that message, I asked my best friend to deliver a large black package. Inside was something no one expected…

When Loan opened it, her face turned pale. She collapsed onto the floor, hands trembling, tears streaming down uncontrollably. Inside the package was a thick stack of documents:

A DNA test result between me and the child — negative.

Photos from a fertility clinic’s camera — showing Loan with an unfamiliar man.

A copy of a 3-billion-VND loan contract under her name — money I had no knowledge of, never signed.

And… a handwritten letter from me, short and cold:

“I once trusted you completely.
But while I thought you were lonely and needed your husband by your side, you already had a ‘backup plan.’
Do you know what hurts more than poverty?
Being betrayed by the person you’d die for.
The 3 billion was money I saved, plus loans I took in Japan. I don’t want it back.
Live well with your child. I’m leaving.”

That very night, Loan called me again and again. I didn’t answer. She kept calling, then sent a message:

“I was wrong, but I had my reasons… Please, just come back once. Meet the child.”

I returned. She was waiting in the yard, the boy asleep in her arms. Her eyes were sunken, lifeless. She confessed:

“I was desperate. After so many failed treatments, the doctor said my chances were less than 5%. Your mother kept scolding me, the villagers mocked me. I almost gave up.

But then… there was a man, a fertility doctor, who sympathized and listened. I was weak. And what was bound to happen… happened.”

She choked on her words:

“When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified. I wanted to hide it forever, but every time you sent money, along with words of love, I couldn’t tell you. I was scared of losing you.”

I gave a bitter laugh.

“You were afraid of losing me, yet you accepted having another man’s child? Is that your idea of love?”

Loan stayed quiet. I no longer blamed her. Because at that moment, I wasn’t in pain anymore — I just felt empty.

Three months later, I moved to Hanoi, working for a Japanese-owned engineering company, thanks to my language skills and experience. I cut off contact with Loan, but every month I still sent money — not for her, but for the boy.

He wasn’t at fault.

A year later, I returned to my hometown. Passing by my old house, I saw a little boy playing in the yard. He looked up, grinned, and asked:

“Uncle, do you have candy?”

I knelt down, patted his head, and felt a strange lightness in my chest.

“Yes, but only for good boys.”

I never imagined that years later, I’d become a “familiar figure” to a child who shared none of my blood. Each time I returned home, I’d stop by, bringing him milk, comic books, or sometimes just a box of crayons.

At first, Loan was uneasy, but eventually, she got used to it. We didn’t speak much, but our eyes no longer carried the same awkwardness. She grew thinner, her former pride long gone. As if life itself had taught her how to pay for her choices without anyone needing to punish her.

One rainy afternoon, I stood under the eaves, watching the boy pedal his tricycle around the yard. Loan brought out a cup of hot tea, handed it to me. We sat in silence for a long time, until she finally asked:

“Do you think… you’ll ever forgive me?”

I smiled, didn’t answer immediately. My gaze rested on the boy — carefully gathering fallen leaves, placing them on his toy cart as if it were a secret game.

“I don’t hate you,” I finally said. “But forgiveness… perhaps that was already done the day I first sent money back, along with that black package.”

Loan lowered her head, lips pressed tightly together.

“Then… if one day I fall ill, would you take me to the hospital?”

I let out a small laugh.

“I’d drive you there. But from the hospital back home… that might be someone else.”

In that moment, we both smiled — a smile sharp as frost, yet strangely freeing. We both knew: love had died, but humanity remained. That little boy was the crack in a once-strong trust, but also the fragile bridge that kept something unnamed between us from breaking completely.

I never went back to Loan. But I continued living nearby, like a shadow behind three people: her, her son, and the man who would one day arrive to take my place.

Because even if I was not the boy’s father, I was once the reason he was given life.