After My Miscarriage He Chose Her Over Our Marriage

McKenzie Meyer's large eyes glistened with tears, portraying a pitiful, on-the-verge-of-crying expression. Jackson quickly attempted to console her, “Kenzie, I know you meant well. This was just an accident, nothing to do with you.”

Seizing the moment, McKenzie nestled into Jackson's embrace, like a frightened bird seeking refuge. “Jack, I know you're the greatest, but I'm worried Rebecca will misunderstand me.”

Jackson stole a quick glance at me before whispering to her, “It’s fine, she won’t blame you. I’m here.”

The way they clung to each other, you’d think it was McKenzie who had suffered the miscarriage, not me.

Gathering my resolve, I slowly approached McKenzie and, in one swift move, slapped her across the face. Jackson immediately positioned McKenzie behind him, shielding her.

“Rebecca, have you lost your mind? The child is gone, and you’re taking it out on Kenzie? If you’re upset, direct it at me!”

McKenzie covered her face, sobbing softly. I was about to retort to Jackson, but a sharp pain in my abdomen made me double over. I clutched my stomach and crouched down.

Jackson noticed and instinctively moved to help me, but McKenzie softly interrupted, “My sister had a miscarriage at three months once, and she was discharged from the hospital within hours. The doctor said the fetus isn’t fully developed before three months, so it doesn’t really harm the mother.”

Jackson’s hand paused. His expression turned cold, as if he suspected I was feigning my pain.

“Rebecca, you can have another child, but this was your fault. Apologize to Kenzie.”

My nails bit into my palms, and my chest heaved with anger. I stared at them, suddenly realizing how blind I'd been.

With clenched fists, I shouted, “Get out, both of you!”

McKenzie nestled deeper into Jackson’s arms. “Jack, I think I have a fever. I’m feeling faint.”

Jackson felt her forehead, his face full of concern. “Forget about her. Let’s get you some medicine.”

With that, he guided McKenzie out of the hospital room.

For five years, I endured for the chance to have a child with him. Now, the baby was gone, and he called me a lunatic.

I was indeed foolish—a fool for loving him from the start. In trying to be the perfect wife, I had abandoned the career I loved.

The room spun, and I collapsed onto the floor.

When I regained consciousness, a nurse beside me looked on with sympathy.

“Why isn’t your husband here with you? You’re so weak after the surgery.”

A bitter smile formed on my lips. My phone buzzed with a notification from McKenzie on social media.

“Jack’s so considerate, keeping my IV warm with his hands. I’m truly touched.”

The picture showed McKenzie's delicate wrist with an IV needle, Jackson beside her, tenderly holding the tube.

Without thinking, I liked the post and decided to update my own account.

“On the day of the miscarriage, my husband is warming the IV for his girl. How thoughtful.”

I attached a photo of my surgical report alongside McKenzie’s post.

Within a minute, McKenzie commented.

“Rebecca, you misunderstood. Jack didn’t want to leave me alone with the IV. I’ll send him back soon.”

Jackson’s call came through at the same time.