My Fake Husband Killed My Son

My name is Melissa Sharpe, and I have been married to Ethan Donald for exactly ten years. Over the past ten years, our greatest wish was to have a child. Ethan Donald had oligospermia. To have a baby, we visited countless hospitals and took numerous medications. Finally, when I was thirty-five, our son Simon was born. Simon's arrival was like a ray of light, brightening our otherwise ordinary life. I poured all my love into Simon, watching him progress from babbling to taking his first unsteady steps—each day filled with wonder. Ethan was especially devoted to Simon; the first thing he did after work every day was to hold Simon in his arms and play games with him. Life went on quietly and happily, until Simon turned five. The company arranged for me to go on a week-long business trip out of town. Before I left, I repeatedly reminded Ethan Donald to take good care of Simon, and I specially hired the experienced nanny, Nanny Lawrence, to help look after him. Ethan Donald patted his chest confidently and assured me to rest easy, saying he would take good care of Simon. With a heavy and anxious heart, I set off on the business trip. During the trip, I made video calls to my family every day just to see Simon. A few days ago, everything was fine. Simon always excitedly told me through video calls what he had played and eaten each day. But on the fifth day, when I tried calling home via video as usual, no one answered. My heart sank; a dreadful feeling overwhelmed me. I hurriedly called Ethan Donald. The phone rang for a long time before he finally answered. On the other end, Ethan's voice was hoarse and weary, heavy with sorrow. He told me that Simon had an accident. My mind went blank, and I demanded to know exactly what had happened to Simon. Ethan Donald choked out, 'Simon fell from the balcony at home today. He didn't make it.' When I heard the news, it felt like the sky had collapsed; tears instantly poured down, and my body trembled uncontrollably. I immediately booked the earliest flight and rushed home without a moment's rest. On the way, I kept praying, hoping this was just a nightmare—that when I got home, Simon would still run into my arms and call me Mom like always. But when I arrived, I was met not by Simon's smile, but by an empty, cold house and Ethan's worn, pale face. I asked Ethan Donald desperately, "Where is Simon's body? I want to see Simon." But Ethan Donald told me that Simon had already been sent to the crematorium for cremation, and the ashes had already been collected. I couldn't believe my ears and demanded to know why Ethan Donald hadn't waited for me to return, why he had cremated Simon so quickly. Ethan Donald lowered his head and stammered that he was afraid I would be even more heartbroken if I saw Simon's condition, and besides, according to local customs, a child who dies young must be cremated promptly. I know he's lying—there's no such custom here at all. The doubts in my heart grew heavier, but at that moment, overwhelming grief left me no space to think.