His Secret Family: I Was Never His Wife

Spring is the season I dread the most.

Because every spring, my mere existence becomes a lethal weapon against my own son.

Theron told me he suffers from a highly rare condition: Maternal Stress Rejection Syndrome.

If I so much as get near Flynn during the spring months, it triggers severe asthma attacks and terrifying asphyxiation.

To keep our boy alive, Theron takes him away to an isolated treatment center for three months, every single year.

And I stay behind, swallowing antidepressants by the handful just to survive the crushing guilt.

That is, until I found a photo hidden in Theron's burner phone.

In the picture, my husband and my son are tightly embracing another woman.

The so-called Maternal Stress Rejection Syndrome was nothing but a sick lie—a meticulously crafted excuse so my husband could spend the season playing "happy family" with his first love.

 ......

"Elara, step back. You're too close to him."

Theron zipped up Flynn's suitcase, shooting me that familiar, guarded glare.

"Mommy is toxic," Flynn mumbled, his tiny fingers tightly gripping Theron's pant leg. "Daddy, take me away quickly. I don't want to die."

It felt as though an invisible hand had reached into my chest and crushed my heart.

"Flynn, I'm so sorry... Mommy didn't mean to." My tears spilled over instantly, hot and stinging.

"Enough. Stop the waterworks. It only makes him reject you more," Theron snapped, cutting me off with brutal impatience.

He scooped Flynn into his arms and bypassed me like I was the plague, striding rapidly toward the front door.

"Theron..." I called out, my voice trembling badly. "How long is the quarantine treatment... this year?"

"Three months. Just like every year. You stay put in the house for these three months. If your panic attacks act up, nobody will be here to save you."

"Can I... can I video call you? Just to check on him. Just one look," I begged.

"No. The doctor made it perfectly clear. Seeing you triggers a psychological stress response in him. It'll ruin his recovery," Theron refused flatly.

The heavy front door slammed shut, cutting off the vibrant spring light outside, and entirely entombing me in this prison of my own guilt.

It all started the first spring after Flynn was born.

If I even attempted to hold him, he would descend into terrifying fits of breathlessness and convulsions.

Theron brought in top-tier private physicians. He slapped a thick stack of medical reports in front of me, declaring that our son suffered from an incredibly rare condition: Maternal Stress Rejection Syndrome.

He blamed it all on a horror movie I watched while I was pregnant.

He insisted that the brief moment of fright had caused my stress hormones to mutate, turning my scent into the very poison that was suffocating our son.

Five years of consuming terror and self-blame reduced me to a medicated shell of a human being. I even destroyed my own hard-earned career with my own two hands.

I slumped onto the hardwood floor, listening to the roar of the car engine fading down the driveway until the entire house plunged into a deathly silence.

Like always, I let that familiar numbness swallow me whole, moving like a zombie as I began to clean up the mess they left behind.

It was when I was about to wash the jacket Theron had discarded. My hand brushed against something hard in the inner breast pocket. A phone.

Theron was a meticulous man. He always carried two phones: one for business, one for family.

But this one... I had never seen this one before.

Driven by some inexplicable impulse, I pressed the power button.

The screen lit up. No passcode.

The moment the lock screen wallpaper appeared, the blood froze in my veins, and the air left my lungs entirely.

Theron was holding Flynn in his left arm, while his right arm was wrapped tightly around a woman's waist.

The woman was in a bikini, wearing oversized sunglasses, flashing a radiant, brazen smile.

It was Daphne.

Theron's first love.

The woman he swore had emigrated to Europe years ago, the one he promised he would never cross paths with again.

My hands shook violently as I tapped open the photo gallery.

Thousands of photos. A meticulous, horrifying visual diary of their so-called "quarantine treatments" over the last five years.

Year one, spring: Surfing in Hawaii.

Year two, spring: Skiing in the Alps.

Year three, spring: Front row at a fashion show in Paris.

Year four, spring: Celebrating Flynn's fourth birthday on a luxury cruise ship.

In the photos, Flynn was affectionately clinging to Daphne's neck, kissing her cheek. A picture-perfect, blissfully happy family of three.

My son wasn't sick.

My husband wasn't desperately traveling to save him.

The so-called "Maternal Stress Rejection Syndrome" was nothing but a vicious, tailor-made lie—all just so he could spend a three-month honeymoon with his first love every single spring.

I had been the ultimate fool, locked inside this dark house, atoning for five whole years for a tragedy that didn't even exist.

My trembling finger tapped open the most recent text message.

It was from Daphne: [Darling, are you and Flynn on the road yet? I'm waiting for you both at Oakbrook Estate.]