When Mark married me, he didn’t spend a dime, and all our neighbors praised me for being such a good wife. Little did I know, in the first year of our marriage, he was already keeping a college student mistress. The day I gave birth, he was still fooling around with the company’s receptionist. When our daughter turned six, he told me, “Clara, we’re not a good match. Let’s get a divorce.” I barely managed to suppress the smirk threatening to break free, and without a second’s hesitation, I agreed, “Okay.” Six years of silent endurance were finally about to pay off. Our family has a generations-old curse. The more one partner sacrifices, the more the other is cursed to repay, manifold, once the marriage ends. That’s why, when I found out about Mark’s affairs, I never made a fuss. “Clara, Mom says you dumped her chicken broth. She slaved over it for three hours! You have no respect for your elders!” Mark burst out, just a month after he hadn’t been home, immediately launching into accusations. I had just given birth and was still breastfeeding. I frowned, “That broth was from your last visit, Mark. It was just scraps, left in the fridge for thirty days. It was molded and stank.” “Oh, my son, you truly married a *gem* of a wife!” Denise, my mother-in-law, wailed dramatically from the side. “I barely touched it myself! What business was it of hers to just throw it out? She has no manners!” Mark’s face immediately hardened. “My mom is thrifty! If she wants to save it, let her save it! The fridge is big enough. What’s wrong with letting her keep it?” I was furious. “The fridge is packed with fresh breast milk! If that broth went bad and contaminated the milk, and our daughter got sick, would you be the one taking her to the hospital?” “If the milk goes bad, just pump more, what’s the big deal?” Mark said dismissively, not even bothering to consider how much pain I’d gone through to clear my ducts, or how much time I’d spent carefully storing all that fresh breast milk. Denise chimed in with Mark, her voice sharp with accusation. “If our granddaughter gets sick, it’s *your* fault! What’s the point of earning barely enough to cover your coffee budget? You’re completely dependent on my son! And you graduated with a Master’s from a top-tier university? Your weekly wage is less than my niece who only finished middle school!” My vision swam with anger. Of course, your niece, working twelve hours a day on the production line, can earn that much. My weekly wage is peanuts because the month after we got our marriage license, your son *punctured* the condoms, leading to an unplanned pregnancy. I had just started a new job, still in my probation period, when I found out I was pregnant. My boss wasn’t happy, of course. They sidelined me and cut my entire year-end bonus. He had promised me before we got married that we’d wait a few years to have kids.
When I first found out I was pregnant with our daughter, I thought he’d come with me to get an abortion. But the next day, Robert and Denise showed up, both urging me to keep the baby, while Mark just stood by, silent. My heart ached with frustration, but then he held my hand and said, “Clara, please, for me, for this family, let’s keep the baby, okay?” My heart softened, and I agreed. I suggested hiring a postpartum nurse, and Robert and Denise promised me the world. But when my due date neared, Mark started to waver. “A stranger won’t care for the baby as well as family.” “Why pay someone else when my mom can earn that money?” “My mom raised me alone, and I turned out fine – two arms, two legs, perfectly healthy!” “Clara, your salary is low now, and I’m the sole breadwinner. A postpartum nurse is expensive, and I’m under a lot of pressure. Besides, my parents have already moved in, there’s no room for anyone else…” I was young and naive then, truly believing I would receive meticulous care. Little did I know, when Denise found out I’d given birth to a girl, she completely abandoned me. I lay weakly on the delivery bed, while Mark worked endless overtime. I couldn’t even get up to use the restroom in the middle of the night without help; I had to beg the nurses.
I kept telling myself Mark was working hard, and no matter how unhappy I was, I just gritted my teeth and endured. Until one day, I went to grab groceries and saw him leaning against his car, intimately chatting with a pretty college student. The student even gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. After she left, he lit a cigarette and smugly chatted with the apartment building’s security guard. “What do you think? Eighteen years old. Way younger than my wife.” “My wife’s an Ivy League grad, and what good did that do her? She still pops out kids for me, mops floors, and washes dishes.” “I’m not going home. If I go home, I’ll have to help with the kid, right? It’s so annoying…” “You wouldn’t believe it. After giving birth, her body just swelled up, ugh. Doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t wash her hair. She’s a total mess. Just looking at her makes me sick.” Every word was a gut punch. Each sentence hit me like a ton of bricks, pressing heavily on my shoulders. He seemed to have forgotten. The down payment for our apartment, the one we lived in, was paid using money he *borrowed* from my wedding funds. He still hadn’t paid me back. I couldn’t take it. I stormed over to confront him, but he just saw it as losing face. Right in front of the security guard, he slapped me hard, twice, then kicked me. “You damn bitch, is that how you talk to your husband? You need to remember who supports this family! Who gives you the money you spend!”
That’s right. As soon as my maternity leave ended, the company fired me. Now, I was just a full-time stay-at-home mom, completely dependent on my husband. I touched my face, swollen like a balloon, and burst into uncontrollable sobs. Only one thought consumed my mind. Revenge. I wanted him to experience the suffering I had endured, the pain I had felt. I wanted him to lie helpless on a delivery bed. I wanted him to feel the sting of betrayal. I wanted him to lose everything, to drown in endless despair. The next day, I called my mom. She seemed to have expected it. Her voice was calm. “You two only had a wedding reception, you never even got your marriage license. The curse’s power will be halved. If you leave him now, he’ll only get gastritis for a year and have his reputation dragged through the mud. That’s nothing compared to what you’ve suffered.” I calmed down. She was right. I couldn’t leave him yet. Not only would I not leave, but I had to get our marriage license. The more he owed me, the more he messed up, the more he’d have to repay. My ten months of pregnancy for a year of stomach issues? No way. I wanted to tear him apart inside, to make him writhe in agony.
For six years, he thought I couldn’t live without him, and he grew increasingly brazen. He would hit and verbally abuse me at the slightest provocation. Finally, when our daughter turned six, and Mark proposed divorce, the time was ripe. I did the math. With all the debts and wrongdoings he’d accumulated during our marriage, he definitely wouldn’t escape death. I deliberately suggested dividing our marital assets. As expected, he exploded, raging that I was malicious, his face purple with rage. “Have you earned a single dime for this family all these years? Let me tell you, the house is already in my mom’s name, and I don’t have a penny to my name! And I want full custody of our daughter!” Denise also pointed her finger at me, yelling, “You pathetic hanger-on! If you hadn’t clung to my son, he wouldn’t have been soft-hearted enough to marry you! It’s *your* fault we’re divorcing, you didn’t take good care of him! And now you’re dreaming of our family’s assets? No chance!” Seeing them so eager to dig their own graves, I felt at ease. “Fine, I don’t want anything. I’ll walk away with nothing.” Denise was ecstatic, rushing Mark to book an appointment at the divorce office as if afraid I’d change my mind. The divorce process was unusually smooth. As soon as the cooling-off period was over, the official papers were in hand. Stepping out of the divorce office, he was now my ex-husband. My ex-husband warned me not to spread news of our divorce. He probably had an image of a happy, stable family to maintain for his clients and superiors; if they found out, it could harm his career. Maybe he always thought I was easy to manipulate. Submissive, only capable of crying when hit or verbally abused. Even after divorce, he surely expected me to obey him. “Who knows?” I curved my lips into a small smile, shedding my usual docile image. “It depends on my mood.” He was shocked by my attitude, then his face contorted in furious embarrassment. “You damn bitch, talking to your husband like that! No wonder I divorced you!” He was always like this, acting like a king, expecting everyone to flatter and please him. Little did he know, my years of docility were simply a means to ensure a tenfold repayment. My ex-husband raised his fist, intending to strike my head as he used to, to vent his fury. But this time, he didn’t get his way. I raised my slender arm and grabbed his wrist. “We’re right outside the divorce office, Mark. There are cameras everywhere. Touch me, and I’ll make sure you go to jail.” His jaw twitched violently. Suddenly, a look of agony crossed his face. He gagged, then threw up. Forgetting to lecture me, he spun around and rushed towards the restroom. Not long after, an ambulance pulled up to the divorce office. My ex-husband, pale as a sheet, was carried away on a stretcher. He was always so strong, juggling two mistresses and a wife, working round the clock, yet always full of energy. Now, he was foaming at the mouth, collapsing in the bathroom. The curse had triggered so fast. Under the brilliant sunshine, I finally burst out laughing.
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