The husband forced his wife to have an abortion to easily be with someone else, but the clever wife escaped to the south to give birth. Seven years later, she returned with her two sons, starting a plan to make her ex-husband’s life miserable…
A Husband Forced His Wife to Abort the Baby to Be With Another Woman—She Escaped South and Gave Birth. Seven Years Later, She Returned With Her Twin Sons and Began Her Plan to Break Him…
Hanoi, March.
Spring rain fell like fine silk threads outside the window. Inside a luxury apartment on Nguyễn Chí Thanh Street, Ngọc stood frozen, clutching the ultrasound paper tightly.
“Your baby hasn’t formed yet. Abort early. I’ll cover all the costs.”
The man’s voice was cold, unfamiliar. It was Dũng—her husband. The man who once knelt down and begged to marry her was now pressuring her to get rid of the life they created together.
Ngọc couldn’t believe her ears. She thought Dũng would be overjoyed by the news. But no—his eyes avoided hers. And then came a confession, like a knife to the heart:
“I’m with someone else. She’s pregnant. If you keep the baby, things will get too messy. I hope you understand.”
That night, Ngọc left. No screaming. No crying. Just a pounding heart and her footsteps vanishing into the rain—carrying within her a tiny, fragile life.
She arrived in Saigon on a hot afternoon. Changing her name to Trang, she rented a small room in Tân Bình District. Alone, with her belly growing, she started a new life.
Seven months later, Ngọc gave birth to twins. Two baby boys—both looked just like Dũng. She named them Nam and Minh. One was calm, the other clever. They were like two pieces of her heart.
Life wasn’t easy. Ngọc worked as a café waitress, then a kitchen assistant, and later started selling goods online. She never spoke about their father. In her heart, there was one promise:
“I will make sure my sons never lack love. And I will never let anyone hurt them.”
Seven years later.
On an autumn afternoon in Hanoi, a taxi stopped in front of a major real estate company—where Dũng was now the CEO. Ngọc stepped out, her hair in a bun, wearing a white blouse and fierce determination in her eyes.
“What are you going to do?” her best friend Mai asked.
“Not revenge,” Ngọc replied. “I just want him to see what he threw away—how far it’s come.”
She applied for a position in the marketing department—under a false name. Her talent quickly earned respect, and soon she was promoted to assistant to the Deputy Director—who reported directly to Dũng.
Step by step, Ngọc set her trap. She began uncovering shady contracts that Dũng tried to hide. By working with the finance assistant, she traced a ghost project worth over 30 billion VND. If exposed, Dũng could lose everything.
But Ngọc didn’t strike immediately. She waited. Spread quiet rumors. Then “accidentally” leaked financial data.
The media caught wind. An emergency board meeting was called. Dũng—once proud like a king—now stood pale as shareholders turned their backs on him.
One evening after work, Ngọc waited for him in the lobby. The wind caught her ash-gray áo dài. Dũng saw her and froze:
“You…?”
“You forget so easily,” she said. “My name is Trang. Ngọc—the woman you forced to abort—died seven years ago.”
He was speechless. She handed him a copy of the DNA test—proof that the boys were his.
“They’re your sons. But they don’t need a father like you.”
Soon after, Dũng began visiting their kindergarten, secretly watching them through the window—his eyes filled with regret.
One night, Minh got a high fever and was hospitalized. Dũng heard the news from one of Ngọc’s old friends and rushed over in the middle of the night.
“I’m sorry. I was wrong. I don’t deserve forgiveness… but I really want to do something for them.”
“You don’t need to make amends. My children already have their mother.”
When Minh woke up and saw Dũng asleep beside the hospital bed, he whispered:
“Who are you, uncle?”
Dũng burst into tears. He had no answer.
A month later, Dũng voluntarily resigned. He became a university lecturer in business management, lived a quiet life, and never remarried. Ngọc continued raising her boys and never mentioned “uncle Dũng” again.
One day, she received a handwritten letter from him. No apologies. No pleas for forgiveness. Just:
“Thank you for not turning the children into tools of revenge. Thanks to you, I knew—at least in a dream—that I once had a chance to be a father.”
Ngọc read the letter, then burned it. Smoke blurred her vision as she whispered:
“I forgive you—not because you deserve it, but because I want peace.”
When Nam and Minh turned ten, on a cold winter night, as the family watched TV together, Nam—the thoughtful one—suddenly asked:
“Mom, do we really not have a dad?”
Ngọc froze. The apple in her hand trembled. She looked into her son’s innocent eyes and gently said:
“You do. He was once the man I loved most. But I made a mistake… and he couldn’t be with you.”
Minh—the lively one—crawled into her lap.
“Then… does Dad know about us?”
Ngọc took a deep breath.
“He does. And he loves you very much. But sometimes… love isn’t enough to make someone brave.”
The boys fell silent. They asked no more. But Ngọc knew—a quiet thread still connected them. No matter how hard she tried, a father’s presence—even as an idea—was something they longed for.
Thirteen years after Ngọc fled Hanoi in the rain, she got a call from a stranger:
“Is this Ms. Ngọc? I’m a student of Professor Dũng. He had a stroke and was hospitalized. The only thing on him… was a photo of you and the two boys.”
Ngọc rushed to the hospital. Her sons—now tall young men—followed her. In the ICU, Dũng lay weak, his body frail, his left hand curled in, his eyes fading.
Ngọc placed her hand on his. Just like long ago—but now, there was no anger, no pain. Only a deep feeling for someone she once loved dearly.
“I’m here. Not to hold on. Just to let you know… there’s no more resentment between us.”
Minh stepped closer, looking at the man his mother once called “Dad,” and whispered:
“Thank you for giving me life. Even if we weren’t together… I don’t hate you.”
A tear fell from Dũng’s eye. His last.
Dũng’s funeral was quiet. No grand wreaths. Just a few students and former colleagues. Ngọc left a bouquet of white chrysanthemums and a handwritten note:
“You were once my mistake, but also a beautiful memory. I’ve truly forgiven you.”
After the funeral, the three returned to Saigon. On the road, Nam turned to his mother:
“Mom, is it hard to forgive?”
Ngọc smiled, looking into the rearview mirror—where Dũng’s shadow faded in the distance.
“Very hard. But if we can’t, we’ll forever be trapped in the past. Forgiveness… isn’t about whether they deserve it. It’s about whether we deserve to be free.”
Twenty years later.
Nam became a lawyer. Minh, a graphic designer. During a televised interview, someone asked:
“Who influenced your life the most?”
Nam smiled and answered:
“My mother. The woman who forgave someone who didn’t deserve it—to teach us our first lesson about compassion… and freedom.”
