My Husband Told Me to Be Patient

Ethan came home within twenty minutes.

He rushed into the bedroom with his coat half-buttoned, hair messy, panic on his face.

For one foolish second, my heart softened.

Then Martha started crying.

“My son,” she wailed, clutching her chest, “look at the wife you married. I only asked her to think about the Hale family, and she told me to get out.”

Ethan looked exhausted.

“Mom, Lydia just gave birth.”

“She gave birth to another boy!”

His face tightened.

“Can we discuss the third child later?”

Martha stared at him.

“No one told her to give birth today. She can start preparing during recovery. Women in my time had one pup every year. No one was this delicate.”

I waited.

Surely, after almost losing me, he would say no.

Surely, after seeing the blood, the surgery, the way I could barely breathe through the pain, he would finally choose me.

Ethan rubbed his temples.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll prepare.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

He avoided my eyes.

“Mom, go make Lydia some chicken soup. If her body recovers well, it’ll be easier next time.”

Martha brightened instantly.

“That’s more like it.”

She left the room humming.

The moment she disappeared, Ethan turned to me and raised a finger to his lips.

“Shh.”

I stared at him.

He came to the bed and lowered his voice.

“I was just calming her down.”

I said nothing.

“My mom is like this. You know that. Just agree with her for now. Later we’ll say you can’t conceive. What can she do?”

The same words.

In my first life, after our first son was born, I had not wanted a second child.

Ethan said the same thing then.

“Just agree with her. We’ll say we’re trying.”

I believed him.

A year later, I stared at a positive pregnancy test, my hands shaking.

It made no sense.

Ethan had promised he had undergone sterilization.

He had even moved out for a week to pretend he was recovering.

When I confronted him, he smiled awkwardly.

“Sterilization hurts. How could you bear to let me suffer?”

Then he touched my belly and said,

“The pup chose you as his mother. Let’s keep him.”

So I gave in.

Again.

That pup was now sleeping in my arms, and I had almost died bringing him into the world.

I looked at Ethan.

“You know exactly how this child came.”

His expression changed.

A flash of irritation crossed his face.

He did not like being reminded of his lies.

But because I had just given birth, he swallowed it.

“Our baby is adorable,” he said, reaching for our son. “Don’t talk like that in front of him.”

I pulled the baby away.

My abdomen screamed with pain.

I tried to sit up anyway.

Ethan panicked.

“Lydia, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to tell your mother there will be no third child.”

He grabbed my wrist.

“Stop making trouble.”

I stared at his hand.

Making trouble.

My body had been cut open.

His mother wanted to drug my soup with fertility herbs.

And I was making trouble.

“You know my mom’s heart is bad,” he said. “She’s going through menopause. Why do you have to fight her?”

Tears blurred my eyes.

“She is going through menopause,” I whispered. “I just gave birth.”

Ethan’s face softened.

He wiped my tears with his thumb.

For a second, he looked like the man I had once loved.

Then he said,

“Be good. Think of it as respecting an elder.”

Something inside me went very quiet.

Outside the bedroom, the kitchen cabinets opened and closed.

I saw a small brown bottle in Martha’s hand as she passed the doorway.

Fertility herbs.

I called out,

“Martha, weren’t you making soup? Why are you holding conception herbs?”

She froze.

Ethan followed my gaze.

“Mom?”

Martha’s face reddened.

“I heard they help women conceive. I thought I’d add some to her soup.”

I had just undergone surgery.

The healers had said clearly that I should not have another pregnancy for at least three years, possibly never.

Martha wanted to dose my postpartum meal.

I looked at Ethan one last time.

He looked away.

That was my answer.

Fine.

If they did not care whether I lived or died, I would stop feeling guilty for what came next.

I turned my head toward Martha.

“I will not have a third child.”

My voice was calm.

“If you want a daughter so badly, have one yourself.”

Martha’s mouth fell open.

Ethan stiffened.

The room went silent.

Then Martha exploded.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said,” I repeated slowly, “have one yourself.”

The moonlight outside the window trembled.

Deep inside my chest, the old woman’s voice laughed.