Rebirth: The New Bride Wants A Divorce-Chapter 371: It was as if I never existed.

Anna buried her face into his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt, and for the first time she didn’t care.

The last time she had cried like this was the day she lost her child.

That day, the world had gone silent. Empty. She had been left alone again, carrying a grief no one saw and a love she never got to give.

She had wanted that child so fiercely. Had been ready to pour every ounce of love she had into them, to make sure they never felt unwanted, never felt invisible. She had been prepared to give them both parents’ love, even if the world had given her none.

And now, standing at the edge of another truth, she realized something that shattered her all over again.

She wasn’t who she had always believed herself to be.

The identity she had built, the place she thought she held—it had all been an illusion.

Daniel tightened his hold, his jaw clenched as he pressed a kiss into her hair. "Listen to me," he said softly but firmly. "You have a place. You have always had one."

She shook her head weakly. "Not there."

"Then not there," he replied without hesitation. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands framing her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You belong with me."

Her breath hitched.

"With me," he repeated, his voice steady and sure. "Not because of blood. Not because of obligation. But because I choose you. Every single day."

Her tears slowed, though they didn’t stop. She stared at him as if trying to absorb the weight of his words.

"You are not unwanted," Daniel continued gently. "You were misplaced. There’s a difference."

Anna let out a broken sob, her forehead falling against his. For the first time in a very long while, the ache in her chest eased just enough for her to breathe.

In his arms, she finally allowed herself to grieve—not just the child she lost, but the girl she had once been, still waiting to be loved.

And Daniel held her through all of it, unmoving, unwavering, proving in the only way that mattered that she was not alone anymore.

***

[Flashback]

"Please rest, Madam."

Mariam stood beside the bed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron as if that alone could hold the room together. Her voice was gentle, pleading, but it barely seemed to reach Anna.

Ever since Anna had returned from the hospital, something had gone terribly wrong.

She was quiet. Not the composed, controlled silence Mariam was used to—but an empty one. A frightening stillness, as though all the emotions had drained out of her, leaving behind a shell that only breathed because it had to.

Anna lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, her eyes open yet unfocused. She hadn’t reacted when Mariam helped her change. She hadn’t complained about the food she barely touched. She hadn’t even asked for water.

This was not the Anna Mariam had known in the past few weeks.

Just days ago, Mariam had watched her madam glow with a happiness she had never seen before. Anna had been careful, almost reverent with herself. She never skipped meals, no matter how busy she was. She followed the doctor’s instructions as if they were sacred rules. She rested when told to rest. She smiled—softly, often unconsciously.

She had cherished the life growing inside her.

And if that wasn’t surprising enough, there was that night.

Mariam’s chest tightened at the memory.

She had walked in quietly to deliver warm milk and stopped at the doorway, afraid to interrupt the scene before her. Anna had been sitting up in bed, one hand resting protectively over her belly, the other holding a book. Her voice had been low and tender as she read aloud, turning each page slowly.

A bedtime story.

For a child who hadn’t even been born yet.

When Mariam had finally stepped inside and gently asked, "Madam... does the baby listen?"

Anna had looked up and smiled.

A real smile.

"He does," she had said with absolute certainty. "I can feel it."

That smile had stayed with Mariam. It had warmed her heart in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

And now—

Now Anna looked like that memory had never existed.

As if it had all been an illusion.

Her skin was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. There was no spark in her eyes, no fire, no will. Just loneliness so thick it made Mariam’s throat ache.

"Madam," Mariam tried again, her voice breaking despite her efforts. "You need rest. Doctor said—"

"Has Daniel returned?"

Anna’s voice cut through the suffocating silence, quiet but sharp enough to make Mariam flinch.

Mariam froze for a second before answering. "N-no, Madam. Not yet."

Anna’s fingers twitched against the bedsheet.

"Oh," she murmured.

Just that. No anger. No disappointment. No tears.

The absence of emotion frightened Mariam more than any outburst could have.

"He will come," Mariam said quickly, stepping closer.

Anna closed her eyes slowly, as if even hearing his name took more strength than she had left. A bitter scoff escaped her lips, quiet but heavy with meaning.

They both knew the truth.

He wouldn’t come.

He hadn’t... not since she could remember.

Mariam lingered by the door, watching her madam with helpless eyes. The sight of Anna lying there—so small, so broken—made her chest constrict painfully. With one last glance, Mariam withdrew from the room, closing the door as softly as she could, as if silence itself might shatter her.

Alone now, Anna finally let the mask slip.

Her lips trembled as she whispered into the emptiness, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she had never been able to say.

"I wanted to tell you about our child, Daniel."

Her fingers curled weakly into the sheets. "I waited for you. I waited so I could give you the news myself." A breathless, broken laugh escaped her. "But I suppose... as always, you didn’t notice me. It was as if I never existed."

Her chest tightened, the ache becoming unbearable.

"And now," she continued, tears slipping down the sides of her face, "with our child gone... you will never even know he was ever here."

A sad smile curved her lips, fragile and fleeting, before it collapsed into something far more painful. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach, trembling as she pressed her palm there, as if hoping—praying—she might still feel something.

But there was nothing. The emptiness screamed back at her.

She let out a sob, her body curling inward as she cried quietly, trying to cradle a space that was no longer occupied. The memory of tiny hopes, whispered promises, and imagined futures shattered all at once.