The day of our divorce, when I walked out with absolutely nothing, I asked my son, Julian, to drive me to my temporary rental apartment. On the way, he pulled over to buy a pack of cigarettes, but he forgot to disconnect his phone from the car’s Bluetooth. Suddenly, my ex-husband Richard’s voice echoed through the car speakers, dripping with smug satisfaction: "Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?" Immediately after, my son’s voice replied: "Of course. Wasn't my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don't forget the sports car you promised me." "Don't worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore." I froze in the backseat, feeling as if ice water had been poured down my spine. Julian hurried back into the car. The moment he saw the Bluetooth screen active, panic flashed across his face. "Evelyn! You... you’re awake?" "...Yeah, I just closed my eyes for a second. What's wrong?" I kept my voice incredibly soft. Julian stared at me through the rearview mirror for two long seconds. "Nothing. Just wanted to tell you we’re here." He pulled the car to the curb and engaged the handbrake. Outside the window stood a dilapidated, old walk-up. The exterior tiles were cracked and falling apart, and bags of trash were piled up at the entrance. Sixth floor. No elevator. He grabbed my single suitcase from the trunk and walked ahead of me. As we reached the corner of the third floor, he suddenly turned around to warn me, "Careful with your steps, Evelyn. The brick here is loose." What a dutiful son. What a great actor. He pushed the door open, and a musty, suffocating smell of decay rushed into my nose. The space was barely three hundred square feet. A single bed was pushed against the wall, its mattress stained with unwashable yellow rings. The faucet was leaking, dripping water one drop at a time, like a countdown timer. Julian set my suitcase on the floor, looked around the depressing room, and scratched his head. "The place is a bit rough, but it’s only temporary." "Once the quitclaim deeds are processed and everything settles down, I’ll find you a better place." *Once the deeds are processed.* He brought up those words again, his tone as casual as if he were talking about the weather. "Sure," I said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and forcing a small smile. He let out a sigh of relief, muttered a few more words about buying me a new comforter later, and told me to just make do for now. Right before leaving, he hesitated at the doorway. "Evelyn, there’s one more thing I need to tell you." "What is it?" "We need to go to the notary public tomorrow. Richard needs a signature on one last document. Just a formality." "What document?" "An addendum to the property transfer. They need a signed Quitclaim Deed from you, waiving your rights as a joint tenant." "Technically, the divorce agreement already covered it, but their title company won't accept it without your direct signature." He spoke so lightly, as if he were just asking me to pick up a package from the post office. "Okay. Just set the time, and I’ll be there." He nodded and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the stairwell, fading further and further away until they were completely swallowed by the heavy thud of the building’s iron door. I sat alone on that strange bed, motionless. My phone screen lit up, dimmed, and lit up again. It wasn't a call. It was a Snapchat notification. I opened it and saw a new message in a group chat. The group was named "The Clan"—our old family chat. I thought they would have kicked me out the moment the divorce papers were signed. But they didn't. Maybe they just forgot. The message was from Richard. He wrote: "Julian, come home early tonight. Valerie made glazed ribs, your favorite." Right below was a voice note. I tapped it, and a woman's sweet, giggling voice played: "Julian, bring a carton of milk on your way back. Mama Valerie's fridge is empty." *Mama Valerie.* A woman in her early thirties, calling my twenty-four-year-old son "Julian," and referring to herself as "Mama." Valerie—Richard’s mistress. I stared at that voice note for a long time. Then, I scrolled up and saw an earlier message sent by Julian this afternoon—right before he dropped me off at this dump. He had written: "Don't worry, Valerie. Evelyn didn't hear a thing. Everything went exactly as planned." Followed by a thumbs-up emoji. Right after sending that message, he had walked up the stairs, carried my suitcase, and told me to watch my step. Before leaving, he even promised to buy me a new comforter. My phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the cold concrete floor. The screen cracked right down the middle. I heard myself laugh. A short, dry, hollow laugh. From downstairs, the neighbors started screaming at each other—a man cursing, a woman sobbing. The faucet kept dripping. One drop at a time. I sat there, staring into space. *Evelyn,* I thought, *you raised him for twenty-four years, and a stray dog would have shown more loyalty.* On the cracked screen, the progress bar of that voice note was still frozen at the end. Valerie's voice seemed trapped in that fracture, smilingly calling him "Julian." "Mama Valerie's fridge is empty."
"Ms. Evelyn, please sign here to confirm this relinquishment of joint tenancy." The notary officer pushed a stack of documents toward me. I picked them up and flipped through. The first page was indeed a "Voluntary Quitclaim Deed of Real Estate," listing three properties—the luxury condo on the Westside, the high-value school-district townhouse, and the commercial building by the riverfront. Every single one of them was bought with the money Richard and I had saved during our marriage. Every single one was registered under Julian’s name. During the divorce, I hadn't fought for them because Julian had held my hand, looking into my eyes, and said: "Evelyn, trust me. Keep the properties in my name. It’s the only way to protect them from Richard. Otherwise, he’ll take everything from you." Now that I recalled it, his eyes had been red, his voice trembling. What a brilliant performance. I flipped to the last page. The quitclaim deed required two copies—one for the notary records, and one for the "designated recipient." Under the recipient column, it read: *Richard.* "Just sign it if everything looks good," Julian said, sitting next to me. He had his legs crossed, tapping away on his phone. I didn't move. He looked up. "Evelyn?" "This—" I pointed at the column. "Why is the recipient Richard? Didn't you say keeping the properties under your name was the safest option?" Julian froze for a split second before quickly recovering. "Evelyn, this is not giving the properties to Richard. It’s just a procedural step. Don't overthink it." I stared at him. He couldn't meet my gaze and looked out the window instead. Just then, the glass door of the office was pushed open. Richard walked in, accompanied by a woman. Valerie. She wore a chic beige cashmere coat. Around her neck hung a necklace—a jade pendant of deep, rich green. I recognized it instantly. It was my tenth-anniversary gift from Richard. He had told me he got it specially imported from Myanmar. One day, the necklace had gone missing. I searched the entire house but couldn't find it. Richard told me I must have been careless and lost it myself. Now, it was resting on Valerie's collarbone. "Oh, hi, Evelyn." Valerie smiled at me, her voice carrying that same sugary tone—like pouring two cups of syrup into a jar of honey. Richard spared me a cold, emotionless glance, walking straight past me to ask the notary about the paperwork. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Actually, he would treat a stranger with more respect. "Evelyn, you need to move on," Valerie said, tilting her head as she pulled up a chair to sit directly across from me. "Richard wants an amicable split. Don't make things difficult. Once you sign, everyone can move on with their lives." She stroked the jade pendant, her fingers tracing the smooth green stone, pausing deliberately. "This jade is so beautiful, isn't it? Richard truly has impeccable taste." I stared at the jade, remaining silent. Beside me, Julian cleared his throat. "Evelyn, don't keep the notary waiting. Just sign it." "I know exactly what this document means once I sign it," I said, pulling my hands back and leaning against the chair. "I’m not signing." Julian's face instantly hardened. He leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Evelyn, don't be foolish. The properties are already in my name. Frankly, it doesn't even matter if you sign or not." "But if you don't, you’re just making this ugly for everyone." "Ugly?" I laughed. "Ugly for whom?" Richard walked over from the notary’s desk, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking down at me. I used to think this man was my partner for life. Right now, his eyes held nothing but impatience and a sliver of pity. That pity stung worse than outright hatred. "Evelyn, keep some dignity," Richard spoke, his voice low but razor-sharp. "Look at yourself. You’re a forty-eight-year-old housewife with no income, no network, and absolutely zero leverage." "Julian supporting you in your old age is a favor, not an obligation." "He’s young. He needs to buy a car, build his career. By refusing to sign, are you trying to ruin your only son's future?" My fingertips went numb. I gripped the strap of my purse tightly. Valerie chimed in right on cue: "Evelyn, Richard doesn't mean any harm. He just wants Julian to have a good life. You're his mother. Surely you have more grace than this?" Julian reached over, grabbing my hand. His grip was light, his expression pleading. "Evelyn, just do it for me." I shoved his hand away. I stood up, pushing the documents back onto the desk. "I said, I’m not signing." As I walked out of the office, Julian's voice drifted from behind me. He probably thought I was out of earshot, so he didn't bother to quiet down: "I couldn't get her to do it. Richard, you handle her." Richard’s voice was much calmer. "Don't worry. A middle-aged woman with no money and no job? Give her two days in that dump, and she’ll come crawling back to sign it herself." The sun was bright outside. But as it hit my face, it couldn't warm me at all.
"Mom, open the door. It's me." I stood outside my mother's security door, ringing the bell three times. Finally, the door swung open. My elderly mother, wrapped in a heavy cardigan, gasped when she saw me. She peeked behind me before opening the door just a crack. "What are you doing here?" "Mom, I got divorced." "I know," she said flatly. "Richard came by two days ago. He sat here all afternoon, brought me groceries and some expensive tea." I froze. "What did he tell you?" My mother sighed, pulling me into the living room. The TV was on, the volume turned down low. On the coffee table sat two empty paper cups and a box of premium tea—Richard's trademark gesture. "He said you’ve been going through menopause these past two years, that your temper has gotten terrible, and you've become completely paranoid. He said he couldn't take it anymore, which is why he filed." "He also said he was worried you might do something drastic, and asked me to talk some sense into you." My jaw dropped. "Mom, he’s lying to you." "Lying about what?" My mother frowned. "Richard sat right there and cried twice. A grown man crying like that—you think he was acting?" "He even told me about Julian. He said Julian is caught in the middle of your constant fighting, stressed out of his mind and unable to sleep at night." "Evelyn, you're almost fifty. You can't be this stubborn. Richard said you’re refusing to sign some paperwork. Why are you making things so hard for your own kid?" "Mom!" My throat tightened. "Those properties are what Richard and I built together over twenty-five years! He manipulated Julian into getting me to sign them over to Julian's name, and now he's forcing Julian to transfer them to him—" "Enough!" My mother slammed the remote onto the coffee table. "Listen to yourself! Your son is lying? Richard is lying? Is everyone in the world evil except for you?" "When your father opposed your marriage to Richard back then, what did you say? You said he was a good man and told us not to worry." "Now that you’re divorced, you’re claiming everyone is scamming you. Evelyn, have you ever stopped to look at yourself?" I sat on the sofa, completely speechless. By the time I walked out of my mother's building, the sky was nearly pitch black. She hadn't invited me to stay for dinner. Before I left, she shoved two hundred dollars into my hand, telling me to use it for now. Clutching the bills in the stairwell, I dialed Harriet's number. It rang six or seven times before she picked up. "Evelyn?" Harriet's voice sounded hesitant. "Harriet... I was wondering if I could borrow some money, just to get me through the month." Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. "Evelyn, let me be honest with you." "Richard called my husband two days ago. He said you haven't been mentally stable since the divorce, and asked us not to trigger you." "He said you believe everyone is out to get you, even Julian." What a masterclass from Richard. Before I could even open my mouth, he had already painted the perfect picture of me—a menopausal, hysterical, unstable woman. "Harriet, you believe him?" "I... Evelyn, it's not that I believe him, I'm just worried about you. You need to rest. Let's take things slow, okay?" "As for the money—don't be mad—but Will said things are a bit tight for us right now, too." I hung up. I didn't say another word. My next stop was the bank. I brought my ID to check the savings account my father had set up for me before he passed. It wasn't much—about eighty thousand dollars—kept in a long-term fixed deposit. The teller searched the system for a long time before looking up. "Ms. Evelyn, this account was reported lost and replaced last month. The entire balance has been wired out." "What? Who authorized that?" "The registration form shows it was authorized by you in person." "I never filed for a replacement." The teller looked uncomfortable and showed me the transaction slip. On the signature line was my name. But the handwriting wasn't mine. Richard was left-handed and could mimic almost anyone’s signature—it was his favorite parlor trick when he was younger. He used to perform it in front of me, laughing and saying he learned it in college to sign attendance sheets for his friends. I had thought it was funny back then. I stood in the busy bank lobby, clutching the transaction slip. Eighty thousand dollars. The very last thing my father had left me. I sent a Snapchat message to Julian, asking if he knew about this. He replied instantly: *Evelyn, stop overthinking things. I don't know anything about the bank account. You should ask Richard.* He added a hugging emoji at the end. Staring at that smiling yellow face, I felt like it was mocking me. "Evelyn, you truly have nothing left." This was the second time I said those words to myself.
"Ms. Evelyn, your rent is due today. Please transfer the payment when you can." The landlord stood at my door, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his eyes sweeping over the dismal little room behind me. "I'll send it now." I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app. Account balance: $0.00. I froze. There was supposed to be three thousand dollars in there—money Julian had "kept safe" for me during the divorce and supposedly returned for my living expenses. It was there yesterday. Today, it was gone. I opened the transaction history. At 2:12 AM, a wire transfer of three thousand dollars had been sent to Richard’s account. The reference line read: "Repayment of Loan." I had never borrowed a single cent from him. Seeing me hesitate, the landlord’s face darkened. "Look, Evelyn, I'm not running a charity here. If you're short on cash—" "Give me three days." "Fine, three days. If I don't see the money by then, you’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep." The door slammed shut. I sat alone on the bed, burying my face in my knees. Then, my phone buzzed. It wasn't a message, but an Instagram notification. Julian had posted. A nine-photo grid showing a gorgeously renovated living room, with a marble dining table overflowing with gourmet food. Richard sat at the head of the table, Valerie sat snugly beside him, and Julian stood proudly behind them. All three of them were beaming. The caption read: "First dinner in the new home. Surrounded by the people who love me." The first comment was from Valerie: "My sweet boy is getting so good at taking photos! ❤️" Julian replied to her: "Stepmom Valerie makes the best food! ?" Below were dozens of comments from their mutual friends. "The new house is stunning! Richard has amazing taste!" "What a beautiful family of three!" "Valerie is finally moved in, congratulations!" No one mentioned me. It was as if I had never existed. I scrolled through them one by one. When I reached the very last comment, my thumb froze. It was Harriet. She wrote: "Julian has grown up so well. Richard, you are truly blessed." Harriet. My friend of thirty years. The one who, three days ago, had told me "I'm worried about you" and "you need to rest." Now, she was happily leaving congratulatory messages on a family photo of Richard, Valerie, and my son. I closed the app. I didn't move for a long time. Outside, a mother was shouting for her child to come home for dinner, her voice echoing down the street. The couple next door started screaming again, dishes smashing, tables slamming. The faucet kept dripping. One, two, three. Suddenly, a memory sparked in my mind. For Julian’s birthday last year, I bought him a new car—not a luxury vehicle, but a decent seventy-thousand-dollar sedan, paid in installments. On the day we picked it up, I was the one who installed his dashcam. I was also the one who registered the cloud storage account for it. He didn't understand technology. I set the password, and it was linked to my phone number. With trembling fingers, I opened the dashcam app on my cracked screen. Log in—fingerprint scan—cloud playback. I dragged the timeline to this afternoon. Nothing. He had turned off the dashcam. I scrolled back to the day of the divorce—four days ago. The files were there. I tapped play. The footage was crystal clear. From Julian's driver-seat perspective, I could see myself in the rearview mirror, fast asleep in the backseat. Then, he got out of the car to buy cigarettes. The Bluetooth was still connected. Richard’s voice boomed through the speakers: "Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?" Julian’s voice replied from the other end: "Of course. Was my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don't forget the sports car you promised me." Richard laughed. "Don't worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore." My breathing grew heavier, echoing in the musty air of the tiny rental. The recording kept playing. Richard said something else that I hadn't heard clearly back then—probably because the Bluetooth signal had briefly cleared up: "Julian, there’s one more thing. Valerie said don't cut her off completely just yet. There’s still one asset in her name—the title deed to your grandfather Arthur's country estate. Once we get our hands on that, you can deal with your mother however you want." Julian replied: "Don't worry, Richard. She trusts me so much. She’ll do whatever I say." I paused the video. The screen froze on my own face in the rearview mirror—eyes closed, with a peaceful, trusting smile on my lips. That woman actually believed her son was going to protect her. I saved the video, synced it to my email, and uploaded a backup copy to Google Drive. Then, I turned off my phone. I sat in the dark for a long, long time. Not until the mother’s shouts faded, and the neighbors’ fighting ceased, ddid I finally stand up and grab my keys. It was time to make them pay.
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