His Dead Wife Killed Our Baby

There was always a ghost in my marriage. An invisible woman who sat between my husband, Gary, and me. She was my former best friend. And she was his late wife. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, we couldn’t go back to my hometown to visit my parents. Gary said Isla would be lonely in the ground, and that we had to keep her company. So, there would always be three place settings at our table. The vase would be filled with her favorite yellow tulips. The five courses would be entirely composed of her favorites—bland, unseasoned steamed vegetables and poached chicken breast prepared without a drop of oil or salt. The final dish was always her absolute favorite: a delicate, clear vegetable broth. The only things in that dining room that belonged to me were my grease-stained apron, crumpled in the corner, and a jar of homemade crab dip that Gary had just tossed into the trash can. Because Isla was lethally allergic to shellfish. In the middle of the fragrant kitchen, I looked at Gary. “Gary, can we finally clear out the master bedroom? The one facing south? In a few months…” “No.” His answer was sharp, cutting through the steam. “That’s her room. She might be gone, but the room stays. There are plenty of other rooms in this house, Gillian. Why does that one bother you so much?” I squeezed the pregnancy confirmation slip in my pocket. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down my spine. In that exact moment, the truth settled over me like dust. You can’t compete with a dead woman. He wanted to spend his life with a ghost, and I was finally ready to let him. … After dinner, Gary took out Isla’s framed portrait to dust it. He used the cream-colored cashmere scarf I had just bought. It was supposed to be a Christmas gift for my mother. The tags were still on it, but Gary had sliced it in half with a pair of kitchen shears without a second thought. He tossed the scraps at my feet. “Use the leftover wool to make some shoe inserts for Isla’s mother. She likes a soft, cushioned step.” For the first time, the color cream looked absolutely hideous to me. My mother had called me last week, complaining about how her neck was always stiff and cold in the winter wind. I had walked miles across the city, nursing blisters on my heels, just to find this high-grade, extra-soft cashmere scarf. And now, it was a rag for Isla’s portrait and padding for her mother’s shoes. “Are the gifts for Tom and Mary ready?” Gary asked, his boots clicking on the hardwood as he stood up to inspect the shelf. He went down his checklist with meticulous care. “The imported Earl Grey tea, the artisanal pecan shortbread, the scotch… Wait, where are the two gift cards?” “I have them,” I said quietly. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t touch their things. I’m driving over to drop them off in an hour. What if something goes missing?” He dropped the list, his face tight with impatience. A bitter ache swelled in my chest. I tried to defend myself. “But those two cards… I bought them for my own parents. We aren’t going home to see them, so I wanted to send something…” Gary’s brow furrowed. “I already told you, it’s fine. I spoke to your parents. They understand.” “Give them those two fifty-dollar cards. The two five-hundred-dollar ones are for Isla’s parents.” Those five-hundred-dollar cards were bonuses from his firm. He had complained the amount was too small to use himself, but now he was using them to buy his way into Isla’s family’s good graces, while throwing fifty-dollar scraps to mine. “Gillian?” Seeing that I remained silent and motionless, Gary’s voice sharpened. I gripped the ruined fabric of the scarf. The question I had buried deep for three years finally clawed its way out. “Gary… why did you marry me?” He froze. For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t answer. He just stared at the polished glass of Isla’s portrait, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Before Isla died, she told me she wanted me… she wanted me to move on. To marry someone.” A roaring sound filled my ears. Something inside me shattered completely. Even though I had suspected it, hearing the words fall from his lips felt like a blunt knife twisting in my ribs. Isla had been a foreign war correspondent. Six years ago, she had gone to cover a conflict zone, got caught in an explosion, and the site was reduced to rubble. They never even recovered her body. For the first three years, Gary mourned her like a monk. And then, he proposed to me. To the rest of the world, he was the ultimate devoted, romantic hero. Everyone believed that after losing Isla, marrying him was the luckiest thing that could have ever happened to me. But the truth was, Isla had never left. When we first married, I was foolishly optimistic. I believed that if I gave him enough love, he would eventually see me. So I learned her favorite things. I bought her gifts on holidays, replaced the yellow tulips on her altar every single day, cared for her parents, and treated her memory with absolute reverence. I kept her alive in our house like a sacred deity. But now, even our marriage was nothing more than her final dying wish. I looked at the elaborate dinner I had spent hours cooking—none of which had been touched. I looked at the jar of crab dip my mother had spent all night preparing, now leaking onto the bottom of the trash can. I looked at the man who was busy loading luxury gifts into his trunk, still demanding I hand over the high-value gift cards. Suddenly, I was just so tired. I looked up at him, my voice flat. “Gary, let’s get a divorce.” His hand froze over the car door. He slowly turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and irritation. “What did you say?” “A divorce,” I repeated, my hand instinctively resting over my slightly rounded stomach. “Give me a reason.” I fell silent. It wasn’t regret; it was just that three years of living in a stagnant pond had left me with too much to say. The words choked me. Gary let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Gillian, stop throwing tantrums. It’s four o’clock. It’s a thirty-minute drive, and if we’re late, Isla’s parents will have to wait for dinner.” He gave me a dismissive look, grabbed the last case of scotch, and walked out. I stood in the quiet house and suddenly laughed. Even my demand for a divorce couldn’t compete with a dinner schedule for his dead wife’s parents. I was laughing, but hot tears were spilling over my cheeks. I snatched the gift cards, wiped my face, and turned to walk out. But Gary caught me by the arm from behind. “Where are you going? Get in the car!” “I’m not going.” The weight of his gaze tightened. “What is it going to take to make you cooperate?” “I want a divorce.” He stared at me, the silence stretching between us. Finally, he let out a cold breath. “Fine. But give me those gift cards first.” His eyes locked onto mine, unyielding. The numbness in my fingers made my hands shake. But Gary didn’t care. He snatched the five-hundred-dollar cards from my grip and tossed the fifty-dollar ones back at me. I stepped back, letting them flutter to the floor. Gary’s face darkened. “Stop being so dramatic.” I have always been a woman of my word. Even though every nerve in my body screamed against it, I got into the backseat of his car. Satisfied that I was behaving, he nodded and turned on the stereo. The soft, familiar notes of Für Elise filled the car. Isla’s favorite. I listened with a numb heart, my eyes drifting to the empty passenger seat. Three years. Since the day we married, I had never been allowed to sit there. It was supposedly reserved for the wife, but I was banned. When I had protested in the beginning, he had said, “Isla is gone, Gillian. Can’t you leave her one spot? She was a hero. Have some respect.” So I had backed down. And every day after that, my favorite foods, my comfortable slippers, my silk pajamas, and the south-facing bedroom that caught the morning light—all of it belonged to her. She was the invisible ghost occupying our entire marriage. I had planned to tell him tonight that he was going to be a father. Now, there was no point. “Gillian, she’s gone. Taking care of her parents is the right thing to do. You shouldn’t be so petty over a couple of gift cards.” He always remembered to care for her parents. But he always chose to forget mine. I said it aloud. Gary’s breathing turned heavy, his voice laced with sudden anger. “Don’t start with me. We send your parents gifts every holiday. What more do you want?” Your parents. He always called them your parents. But Isla’s parents were always Mom and Dad. From beginning to end, I was an outsider. The pressure in my temples built to a throbbing ache. The words I had bottled up for years finally burst out. “You mean the leftover corporate gift baskets of stale crackers you sent them the first year because Isla’s parents didn’t want them? Or the near-expired fruit cakes you threw their way the second year? You spend twenty thousand dollars on her parents every single holiday. And for mine? You won’t even let me give them a fifty-dollar card.” The car violently jerked as Gary slammed on the brakes. I flew forward, hitting the back of the front seat hard, the pain sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. But Gary didn’t offer an apology. Instead, he reached into his pocket and threw a credit card into the backseat without looking back. “I used to think you were a decent woman, Gillian. I didn’t realize you were this small-minded. Take the card. Just don’t say anything embarrassing when we get there.” I didn’t say a word. I quietly picked up the card. Over the years, my salary, my savings—everything had been poured into this household, into the black hole of Isla’s memory. After buying those gift cards, I hadn’t even had enough money left to buy a bus ticket back to my parents’ house. Now, with this card, I could finally afford to go home. When the front door of the Barnett house opened, two gaunt, severe faces appeared. Before I could even take off my shoes, Mrs. Barnett grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the kitchen. “What took you so long? Any later and we would have been eating midnight snacks!” My summer dress was thin. Her sharp nails dug into my skin, and the pain made me shudder. But Gary didn’t see. He only had eyes for pleasing them. “It’s my fault, Mom,” Gary said quickly. “I’ll have her start dinner right away.” He followed us into the kitchen, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Gillian, you have one hour. I want dinner on the table.” “But the ingredients aren’t even prepped—” “I don’t care,” Gary cut me off, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “If you are even a minute late, I will call your mother and tell her you’re demanding a divorce. Your mother had heart surgery four years ago. You wouldn’t want to trigger another episode, would you?” Four years ago, Gary had been the one to find the specialist for my mother’s surgery. Back then, I had spent days crying in the hospital corridors, and he had been there, running errands, bringing homemade soups, and sweet-talking the nurses. My mother, pale but smiling in her hospital bed, had whispered to me, “Sweetheart, he’s a good man. You can lean on him.” I had blushed, my heart swelling with the belief that I had found a protector. And now, that same man was using my mother’s weak heart as a weapon to threaten me. I bit my lip so hard I tasted iron, and slowly nodded. The next hour was a blur of steam and heat. The kitchen was a war zone of crackling oil, while just beyond the door, the sound of easy laughter and cheerful conversation drifted in. My clothes soaked through with sweat, then dried, then soaked again. On the dot, I brought a six-course dinner and soup to the table. Mr. Barnett smiled, nodding. “Thank you, Gillian. Hard work.” Mrs. Barnett sniffed, her mouth curling into a thin line. Gary chimed in immediately. “She’s only really useful for this kind of thing, Dad.” When your heart has been bruised so many times, it eventually goes numb. Mrs. Barnett’s face softened slightly at Gary’s dismissive tone. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she said with mock generosity. “Grab a plate and sit down.” In past years, I was never allowed to sit at the table. While they ate, I was expected to clean the kitchen, mop the bathrooms, and pack away their seasonal clothes and bedding. So Gary answered out of pure habit: “She still has work to do. She won’t be eating.” Mr. Barnett offered a polite shrug. “Oh, we hate to make her work so hard every year. It makes us feel so guilty.” If they actually felt guilty, they wouldn’t have demanded my presence every single time. “Dad, I married her so she could take Isla’s place in looking after you both. Just eat. Don’t worry about her.” My chest felt so tight I could barely breathe. But instead of crying, I wanted to laugh. In fact, a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Gary frowned, looking at me. “What’s so funny?” I didn’t answer. I just stared at him, my eyes locked onto his. For a rare second, a flicker of guilt crossed his face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Go on then. Go clean the house.” He spoke to me like a master dismissing a maid. With that bitter smile still on my face, I untied the apron and threw it onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Gary, if you want this place cleaned, do it yourself. I’m done.” I turned to leave, but his hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. The pain was so sharp I gasped. “Let go… it hurts!” The steam-scalded blisters on the back of my hand popped under his grip, weeping fluid. But Gary didn’t see the fluid, and he didn’t care about my pain. His face was dark with fury. “Gillian, what the hell is wrong with you?” I ripped my hand away with all my strength and took a step toward the door. “If you take one step out that door, I will—” “I already called my mother and told her we’re getting a divorce. You can’t threaten me with her anymore.” With that, I bolted. I couldn’t spend another second in that house. I booked the earliest flight home for the next morning. Then, armed with his credit card, I drove straight to the luxury shopping center. Premium bird’s nest, cashmere sweaters, rare teas, aged single malt scotch, high-end supplements—everything I had wanted to buy for my parents over the last three years but couldn’t afford, I bought now. I paid for it all and instructed the store to ship it directly to my parents’ address. Gary’s texts started flooding in, one after another: Gillian, once you’ve calmed down, come back and apologize. You ruined dinner. Mom and Dad are extremely upset. Your temper is getting out of hand. I asked you to do a simple favor and you start screaming about divorce? The money on that card was meant for maintaining Isla’s memorial site. Don’t waste it… The last message was a voicemail. His voice was thick and slurred; he had clearly been drinking. “Just go home first… I drank too much tonight. I’m staying in Isla’s room…” The south-facing bedroom at the Barnett house had been kept exactly as it was when Isla was alive. The room was a shrine. Photos of the two of them under cherry blossoms, clay figurines they had made together, and a wall covered in movie stubs and date receipts. During our first year of marriage, Mrs. Barnett had asked me to dust that room. When Gary found me there, his face had gone white with rage, and he had dragged me out. “This is Isla’s room. Strangers aren’t allowed in here.” At the time, I had convinced myself he was just drunk, that it was a slip of the tongue. But every day after that, his actions proved the cold reality. Even though we shared a bed, even though I was pregnant with his child, even though my name was on the marriage certificate—I was nothing but a stranger. For the first time in our marriage, I didn’t reply. I blocked his number. A sudden, torrential summer downpour began to pelt the city. As I waited for my Uber, I called my mother. I told her my flight was booked and I was coming home tomorrow. My parents’ voices were thick with unshed tears, but they tried to keep their tone steady for my sake. “Good, good… as long as you’re coming home. If you want a divorce, then get a divorce.” “We’re still here, sweetheart. We can take care of you.” I hadn’t cried when the hot oil burned my hand. I hadn’t cried when Gary threatened me with my mother’s health. But hearing their voices, the tears finally spilled over. I sniffled, murmured a few words of reassurance, and hung up as the headlights of a car pulled up. I stepped off the curb to cross the street. A sudden screech of tires tore through the sound of the rain. Before I could even turn my head, I felt a massive impact, and my body was launched into the air like a ragdoll. The pain was blinding. It felt as if every bone in my body was being crushed under a heavy wheel. Deep in my abdomen, a tearing, agonizing pain bloomed. My vision blurred into a static of black and white. Sirens and shouting voices seemed to come from miles away. With trembling, bloody fingers, I fumbled for my phone and pressed the speed dial. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. The line clicked open. Gary’s slurred, drunken voice drifted through the speaker. “Isla… I miss you so much. Please come back to me…” I bit my tongue to keep consciousness from slipping away, forcing the words out through cracked lips. “Gary… it’s Gillian. I’ve been hit by a car… save the baby…” “Isla… I regret it. I shouldn’t have married Gillian. She isn’t you… she’s nothing like you…” Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth, splattering onto the screen. I was shaking so hard from the cold and the pain, but I forced every remaining ounce of strength into my voice. “Gary… please… save our baby!” But the phone only returned a mumbled, irritated groan. “So noisy…” And then, the line went dead. I couldn’t hold on any longer. The darkness swallowed me whole. When I finally opened my eyes again, a woman’s voice drifted through the sterile air. “Gillian, I am so incredibly sorry. The rain was blinding, and I took the wrong turn. I hit you… and the baby… they couldn’t save him.” “I’ve already notified your husband. He’s on his way.” I blinked slowly, forcing my eyes to focus on the woman standing beside my bed. It was Isla. The woman from the portrait, alive and breathing, standing right in front of me. Just then, the hospital door was violently pushed open. Gary stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes darting between the two of us.

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