My sister cried. It wasn't a happy cry. When I showed her the positive pregnancy test, she froze for three whole seconds. Then, the tears started falling. "Sis?" She didn't speak. She grabbed a tissue, wiped her eyes, and turned away. I thought she was happy for me. Arthur and I had been married for eight years without a child. Now, we finally had one. But the way she cried was wrong. Her hands were shaking. When she left, she stood at the door for a long time, her lips moving, but no words came out. The next day, she came back. Holding a manila envelope. Inside the envelope was a divorce agreement. Blank. "Chloe," she looked at me, her eyes red, "think very carefully before you decide to keep this child." 1 I thought my sister had lost her mind. "Sis, what do you mean?" I pushed the envelope back. A divorce agreement. Blank. What was she trying to say by bringing this to my house? "You and Arthur are doing fine, right?" she asked instead of answering. "Of course we are." "Has he been working a lot of overtime lately?" "Yes. He just got promoted to Project Director. It's normal to be busy." "How late does he stay?" "Eleven or twelve, sometimes later." "When he's working overtime, does he pick up when you call?" I paused for a second. "Sometimes he doesn't. Bad reception. He says there's no signal in the company's underground parking garage." My sister put down her cup. Her hands were still shaking. "Chloe, have you... ever checked his phone?" "Check his phone?" I found it funny. "Sis, I'm not that kind of person. A husband and wife need to trust—" "Check it." She cut me off. Her voice was soft, but very firm. "Just check it once. Tonight, after he falls asleep, check it once." I looked at her face. She didn't look like she was joking. She had dark circles under her eyes and cracked lips, like she hadn't slept in days. "Sis, what is going on? Can't you just tell me directly?" She opened her mouth. Then closed it. "I can't tell you directly," she said. "Because you won't believe me. You'll just think I'm trying to drive a wedge between you two." "You're my sister—" "I'm your sister, which is exactly why you won't believe me." She stood up. "You'll think I'm jealous that you married well, that I can't stand seeing you happy because I'm divorced." That stung. My sister got divorced three years ago. Her ex-husband cheated. She left the marriage with nothing, raising her daughter alone. "Sis, I've never thought that—" "I know." She picked up her bag. "That's why I'm not telling you. Go see for yourself." She walked to the door and stopped. "Chloe." "Yeah?" "No matter what you see, remember one thing—you are not alone." The door closed. I stood in the living room, still clutching that manila envelope. It was very light. But I suddenly felt it weighed a ton. Arthur came home very late that night. Eleven forty. He brought a gust of cold air in with him. Seeing me still sitting on the sofa, he smiled. "Not asleep yet?" "Waiting for you." "Silly, you're pregnant. Get some rest." He placed his phone on the shoe cabinet in the entryway—it was a habit of his, put the phone down first, then change shoes. I used to think this was his self-discipline—not looking at his phone when he got home, focusing on me. Today, staring at that phone, I suddenly felt it looked like a locked box. He went to take a shower. The sound of running water started. I sat on the sofa, looking at the phone on the shoe cabinet. My sister's words echoed in my ears: Check it. Just check it once. I didn't move. The water stopped. He came out, drying his hair, and saw me still sitting there. "What's wrong? Spacing out?" "Nothing." "Go to sleep early, I'll take you to your prenatal checkup tomorrow." "Okay." I followed him into the bedroom. Lay down. Turned off the light. His breathing soon became even. I lay there with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The phone was in the entryway. His breathing was heavy. I didn't move. Not because I didn't dare. Because I didn't want to. If there was nothing in that box, I would have suspected him for nothing. If there was— I closed my eyes. But I couldn't fall asleep. At 2 AM, I got up to use the bathroom. As I passed the entryway, I stopped. The phone was on the shoe cabinet, screen down. I picked it up. The passcode was my birthday. He had never changed it. Thinking this, I entered the six digits. It unlocked. WhatsApp. Three pinned chats. The first one was me. Nickname "Wife". The second was his mom. Nickname "Mom". The third— The nickname was a house emoji. ? No name. Just a house. I tapped it. The newest message was from tonight at 9:17 PM. A photo. In the photo was a little boy, wearing dinosaur pajamas, lying on a bed laughing. Below it was a line of text: "Your son won't sleep, waiting for you to come back." 2 I put the phone back on the shoe cabinet. Screen down, exactly as it was. I went back to the bedroom and lay down. Arthur rolled over, his arm draping across my waist. "Mmm... cold?" "No." His hand was very warm. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, completely still. The little boy in the dinosaur pajamas looked about two years old. He had big eyes and monolids. Arthur has monolids. I didn't sleep all night. The next morning, Arthur got up and made breakfast. Tomato and egg noodles. He was busy in the kitchen wearing an apron. He turned around and smiled at me: "Want a fried egg? You need the nutrition now that you're pregnant." "Okay." I sat at the dining table, looking at his back. I had looked at this back for eight years. Eight years ago, he made four thousand a month, and I made six thousand. The apartment we rented was on the fifth floor, no elevator. Every day when he came home from work, he would first carry the groceries I bought upstairs, then go back down to park his electric scooter. Five trips back and forth. Later, when we bought a house, we didn't have enough for the down payment. I borrowed eighty thousand from my mom, fifty thousand from a classmate, and withdrew all my 401k. He said, "Wife, when I make money, I'll definitely pay you back double." Later, he changed jobs and his salary went up. He changed jobs again, and it went up even more. From making four thousand a month, to eight thousand, to fifteen thousand, to an annual salary of two hundred thousand, to four hundred thousand. When his salary went up, he said, "Don't worry about the money anymore, I'll manage it." I thought he was just being considerate. He took over the household finances. He transferred five thousand to me every month for living expenses, and said he saved the rest. "When we save enough, we'll buy a bigger house." I believed him. For these eight years, I managed the household expenses, paid the mortgage, and sent his mother two thousand every month. He said the rest was invested, saved. I never asked for specific numbers. Because I believed him. I thought of what happened last winter. November. Our wedding anniversary. I took a half-day off and went to the market at 3 PM. I bought his favorites: sweet and sour spare ribs and braised fish. I also bought a bouquet of flowers. I rarely buy flowers. Too expensive. But that day I thought, we've been married seven years, let's be a little romantic. By 6 PM, dinner was ready. Four dishes and a soup on the table. The flowers were in a water glass; I didn't have a vase. At 7 PM, he wasn't back. At 8 PM, I called. Phone turned off. At 9 PM, a text: "In a meeting, be back late." I took the flowers out of the glass. I still needed to use the glass. At 11 PM, he came home. "Did you eat?" "Yeah, company ordered takeout." The four dishes on the table were stone cold. A layer of white fat had solidified on top of the sweet and sour spare ribs. "It's fine," I said. "I'll just heat it up." He didn't notice the flowers. Nor did he remember what day it was. I heated up the spare ribs and ate them myself. Thinking about it now—when he didn't answer his phone at 9 PM that night, where was he? Who was he with? Was that child in the dinosaur pajamas calling him "Daddy"? Breakfast was served. Tomato and egg noodles, with a fried egg. "Eat while it's hot." He sat across from me, smiling. I looked down and ate the noodles. The noodles were very hot. I ate very slowly. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "What time did you get back last night?" "A little past eleven. Didn't I tell you? We're rushing a project." "Mhm." I continued eating. He got up to clean the kitchen. I heard the sound of the faucet. After finishing the noodles, I washed my bowl. He was putting on his coat, getting ready to leave. "Might be late again today. You go to sleep first." "Okay." The door closed. I sat back on the sofa. I took out my phone and sent my sister a message: "Sis, you were right." She replied in three seconds. Like she had been waiting. "What did you see?" I didn't reply. Because I didn't know how to say it. I sat for a long time. Then I stood up and put the dirty clothes he wore last night into the washing machine. A receipt fell out of his coat pocket. A mall, basement level. Children's clothing store. Amount: $85. Item purchased: Children's puffer jacket, blue, size 3T. Size 3T. That's the size a two-year-old child wears. 3 My sister came over. This time she didn't beat around the bush. She brought a binder. Clear, filled with documents. "This is what I've collected over the past six months." She placed the binder on the coffee table. I didn't touch it. "Six months?" "Yes. Six months ago, I saw his car in the mall parking lot. A woman was sitting in the passenger seat. There was a child's car seat in the back." I looked at her. "You saw it, and you didn't tell me?" "I wasn't sure at the time—" "You weren't sure, so you investigated for six months and still didn't tell me?" She didn't speak. "Lily," I called her name. "Six months. You hid this from me for six months." Her tears started falling. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to handle it. You had just been diagnosed with uterine fibroids, you hadn't even had the surgery yet—" "So you made the decision for me?" "No—" "How are you any different from him?" I said. That was harsh. I knew. She was different. She wasn't Arthur. But at that moment, I couldn't control myself. Six months. Half a year. I slept in the same bed with that man every day, cooked for him, washed his clothes, got pregnant with his child—and my sister knew he was lying to me, watched me being deceived, and said nothing. My sister cried with her head down. I sat across from her. I didn't cry. "Give me the binder." She pushed it over. I opened it. First page: a photo. A screenshot from parking lot security footage. Arthur's car, a woman with long hair in the passenger seat, and indeed a car seat in the back. Second page: an address. East side, Emerald Gardens, Building 3, Apartment 1402. "I followed him," my sister said. "Twice. Both times to this address. Once he stayed the whole night, once on a weekend afternoon, he stayed for four hours." Third page: property records for Emerald Gardens. Owner of 1402: Sarah Jenkins. Purchase date: Two years and three months ago. "Your husband paid for this apartment," my sister said. "Put it in her name." I flipped to the next page. A screenshot of a Venmo transfer. Arthur → Sarah Jenkins. The 8th of every month, $2,000. Note: For this month. Six consecutive months. Six screenshots. $2,000 times 6 is $12,000. And that's just the six months my sister followed him. What if we calculate from two years ago? $2,000 times 24— $48,000. I calculated my monthly household budget. Arthur transferred $700 to me every month. $300 to his mom. I paid the mortgage, $900 a month. My monthly salary was $1,700. After deducting the mortgage and household expenses, my monthly balance was negative $200. Negative. I was losing $200 every month, making up for it with my year-end bonus and overtime pay. And he gave that woman $2,000 every month. I closed the binder. "Sis." "Yeah." "Thank you for collecting this." "Chloe—" "But I don't want to talk about you hiding this from me for six months right now." She opened her mouth. "Wait until I'm done dealing with Arthur, then we'll talk about that." I picked up the binder and stood up. "You should go, Sis. He gets back at seven." When my sister left, she stood at the door for a moment. "If you need anything, call me." "Okay." The door closed. I sat alone in the living room. There were two glasses of water on the coffee table; she had barely touched hers. It was getting dark outside. There was still some leftover rice in the kitchen from lunch. I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out two eggs. I made a plate of egg fried rice. Ate it alone. Washed the dishes. Wiped the table. Then I sat on the sofa, waiting for Arthur to come back. At 7:20 PM, the door clicked. "Wife, I'm home! Early today." He smiled as he changed his shoes. "Hey, you cooked? What smells so good?" "Egg fried rice. Your portion is in the pan, serve yourself." "Great." He went into the kitchen. I watched his back. I had looked at this back for eight years. Today, for the first time, I felt it was the back of a stranger. 4 For the next three days, I did nothing. Went to work as usual. Came home as usual. Cooked as usual. Spoke to Arthur as usual. But I started paying attention to his phone. Details I hadn't cared about before now each felt like a needle. He always went to the balcony to make phone calls. His screen auto-lock time changed from thirty seconds to ten seconds. He took his phone into the bathroom when he showered—he never used to do that. On the third night, he worked overtime again. Didn't get home until eleven. I smelled laundry detergent on him. Not our brand. We used Tide. He smelled of Downy. "Worked so late at the company?" "Yeah, rushing a proposal." "You worked hard." "As long as my wife cares about me." He smiled and kissed my forehead. The smell of Downy pressed close. I didn't pull away. And I didn't say anything. On the fourth day, I took a day off. I went to Emerald Gardens. East side, a forty-minute drive. It was a small, well-landscaped complex, the kind of small apartment popular with young people. Building 3, Apartment 1402. I stood downstairs and watched for a while. The windows on the fourteenth floor had pink curtains. Clothes were hanging on the balcony—a man's white shirt, a woman's dress, and some very small children's clothes. It looked like a home. Another home. I sat in a bakery at the entrance of the complex for two hours. At 10:30 AM, a woman pushing a stroller came out. Long hair, wearing a beige coat and sunglasses. A little boy was sitting in the stroller. Wearing a hat with a dinosaur pattern. The child from the photo. She pushed the stroller to the park next to the complex. Sat on a bench. The child got out of the stroller, walking unsteadily. He tripped and burst into tears. She bent down, picked him up, and coaxed him. The child stopped crying and hugged her neck. She took out her phone and snapped a picture. I knew exactly who she was sending that photo to. At noon, I went back to my car. Sat there for a long time. Then I opened Arthur's banking app—the password was his mom's birthday. He had asked me to remember it for him when he registered. He didn't know I actually remembered it. Credit card statements. I scrolled down line by line. A jewelry store: $11,500. Dated three months ago. I hadn't received any jewelry. A postpartum care center: $4,500. Dated May of two years ago. May of two years ago. I was on a business trip that month. Away for half a month in Chicago. Arthur had texted: "Take care of yourself, wife. Miss you." That month, he was accompanying another woman during her postpartum recovery. An early childhood education center: Annual fee $2,400. Payer: Arthur Sterling. A children's photography studio: $500. A children's clothing store: Multiple transactions, ranging from tens to hundreds of dollars. I exited the app. My hands rested on the steering wheel. I realized my fingers were shaking. I took a deep breath. Took out my phone. Flipped to the photos of my sister's binder— The transfer records my sister took photos of were only for six months. But the banking app records went back three years. Three years. A fixed monthly transfer of $2,000 to Sarah Jenkins. That's $72,000 in three years. Add in the jewelry, postpartum center, early education, children's clothes, and daily expenses— I did a rough calculation. Over $110,000. And my savings over these three years— I opened my own banking app. Balance: $4,888.21. My entire life savings from an eight-year marriage. I bought a cup of coffee at the bakery. Held it in my hand. Didn't drink it. Sat there until the coffee went cold. Then I threw it away and drove home. On the way home, I made a phone call. "Sis." "Chloe? What's wrong?" "Page three, that apartment in Emerald Gardens. Did you find the property records?" "I did. 650 square feet, registered in March 2022, bought in cash, total price $125,000. Owner is Sarah Jenkins. I couldn't trace the source of funds—" "I found it." The other end of the line went quiet. "$125,000. He bought her an apartment." "Chloe—" "Adding the monthly transfers and other expenses, in three years, it's at least $210,000." My sister remained silent. "I've been married for eight years, and my savings are $4,800." "Chloe, listen to me—" "Sis, do you have that woman's background info in your binder?" "Yes. Sarah Jenkins, born in 1994, went to the same college as Arthur." College alumni. Arthur had told me he never dated in college. "And their child's birth date?" "January 2023." January 2023. I counted backward. That means she got pregnant around April 2022. April 2022— That was the month Arthur and I were trying for a baby. I was taking folic acid. He told me: "Don't stress, let nature take its course." Let nature take its course. I tried for two years and couldn't get pregnant. She got pregnant. "Sis." "I'm here." "There's something I don't understand." "What?" "I tried to get pregnant for two years and couldn't. I went to the hospital, they said I was fine. The doctor said he was fine too. But I just couldn't get pregnant." There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "When you get home," she said, her voice very low, "go check around your water dispenser. See if there's anything there that shouldn't be." 5 I didn't go check the water dispenser immediately. Because my sister's words carried too much weight. I needed to confirm it myself. That night, Arthur worked overtime until eleven as usual. I opened the drawer in his study. The bottom drawer. He said it was for old documents and warranties. I searched for five minutes. Tucked deep inside an envelope full of receipts, I found a blister pack of pills. White, in aluminum foil packaging. The print was very small. I held it up to the light. Ethinylestradiol and Cyproterone Acetate Tablets. Birth control pills. More than half the pack was gone. Seventeen pills were missing. These were not my pills. I had never taken birth control pills. This pack of pills was in his study. And the water I drank every day—he always poured it. Every morning, he got up earlier than me, boiled the water, poured it into my cup, and placed it on my nightstand. "Wife, have some water before you get up." He'd been saying this for over two years. I thought he was considerate. I sat in the chair in the study, holding that blister pack. I stared at it for a long time. I didn't cry. I just felt cold. Cold seeping out from my bones. I took out my phone and snapped a picture. Then I put the pills back exactly where they were. Put the envelope back. Closed the drawer. I walked to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet. The water ran for a long time. I splashed water on my face. Looked up at myself in the mirror. I was thirty-one. There were fine lines around my eyes. He said: "You work so hard, wife." He said: "Go to sleep early, wife." He said: "When we save enough money, we'll buy a bigger house." While saying all these things, he was crushing a birth control pill into my water cup every single day. Making sure I couldn't get pregnant for two years. Because the woman over there was already pregnant with his child. He didn't need two. I turned off the faucet. Dried my face. Walked out of the bathroom. I sat in the living room. And opened my laptop. I opened Excel. Eight years of accounts. I calculated every single penny. Mortgage: $900 a month. Eight years is $86,400. I paid the first three years entirely by myself—his salary was low then. Later, he got a raise and said, "I'll take over the mortgage." But the bank account for deductions was never changed. It was always my card being charged. Down payment: The money I borrowed and my 401k withdrawal, totaling $30,000. Household expenses: He transferred $700 to me monthly, but actual expenses were $1,000-$1,100. I covered the difference. Eight years, I subsidized at least $30,000. Allowance for his parents: $300 a month. Eight years is $28,800. He said, "I transfer it to my mom." But for three years, I transferred it directly—because he "forgot." My year-end bonuses: For eight years, all went toward paying back favors, covering household deficits, and buying gifts for his family during the holidays. Total— I calculated it three times. $212,000. Over these eight years, I had poured $212,000 into this home. While he had spent at least $210,000 on that woman in just three years. My eight years. Her three years. I opened my sister's binder and flipped to the property page. Emerald Gardens, $125,000 paid in full. Our own house, I paid the $30,000 down payment, and we still owed $88,000 on the mortgage. He bought his mistress a house in cash. He gave me a mortgage. I closed the laptop. Picked up my phone. "Sis." "I'm here." "Help me find a divorce lawyer. The best one." "Already found him. Attorney Davis. Tomorrow at 3 PM." She had prepared everything six months ago. "Thank you." "Chloe, are you still mad at me?" "Yes." "..." "But I'm going to deal with Arthur first."
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "394670", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel