For ten years, his love for me and his devotion to our son had been the envy of every neighbor in our community.
They all said I was blessed to have married such a man.
In our first year of love, I was harassed by a group of thugs.
Frailer than most, he still fought them single-handedly, beating them down with sheer willpower, ending up hospitalized with serious injuries.
Late in my pregnancy, when my water broke and we were stuck in traffic, he shielded me with an umbrella against the blazing sun, carried me in his arms, and ran more than ten kilometers—until he collapsed from exhaustion.
Before he passed out, he begged the doctor, “Save my wife first. Save her!”
After our son was born, Daniel immediately announced him as the heir of the Foster family.
Whenever the child had a minor fever, he would panic as though the world was ending.
His friends teased him for being a henpecked husband and doting father, but he took pride in it.
“That’s because you’re jealous I have such a beautiful wife and adorable son!”
Now, even as Margaret bled, he was still worried about my safety.
But I didn’t need his care.
What I needed was the truth—the real murderer.