I Birthed His Secret Wife’s Baby

The first day of every month. For over a year, this had been our ritual. This was the day I sat in a pristine leather chair and let them draw my blood—the rare antibodies in my plasma supposedly keeping his chronically ill younger sister alive.

He didn't look at me. His voice was a flat, clinical drone that felt almost deliberately cruel. He told me that the woman whose life I had been sustaining month after month wasn’t his sister at all.

She was his ex-wife.

"Her autoimmune flare-ups have stabilized," he said, casually adjusting his cuffs.