My wife Hannah Johnson posted a photo on social media with the caption: “Dogs only listen to their masters.” In the photo, Hannah was wearing sexy lingerie with a dog collar around her neck. In the bottom left corner, a man’s hand was gripping the leash. That hand had a black dog head tattoo on the back. I’d seen that same tattoo on her boss Thomas Adams’ hand before. I liked the photo. The next second, Hannah called to berate me. “Can’t you tell this is just a joke? Get a life and stop stalking my Instagram all day!” Thomas’s cold laughter came through the phone: “That’s what losers do—they fall apart and can’t handle the smallest things.” I quietly hung up. Hannah and I dated for two years and have been married for three. For five whole years, I’ve been pleasing her like a dog trying to please its master. Now, I don’t want to do that anymore. ***** When Hannah came home, I was sitting on the couch eating pizza. She disgustedly grabbed the pizza from my hand and threw it in the trash. “Carter, didn’t I already tell you to stop eating this junk food?” Carter Peterson is my name. Then Hannah pulled out an expensive box of New Zealand salmon and placed it in front of me. “Thomas asked me to bring this back for you. He also said I should make it up to you.” Smelling the fishy odor from the raw fish, I pushed the salmon away. “No thanks.” Hannah glared at me. “Carter, don’t be so difficult. Do I need to feed it to you myself? If you don’t eat it, I’ll just throw it away. You’re so ungrateful!” In the past, I would have sadly asked her: “Hannah, did you forget I don’t eat raw food? I’ll throw up if I eat it.” But today, I didn’t say a word. Hannah handed me her phone: “Call Thomas and thank him, then apologize. Tell him you were overthinking before and that you came to apologize.” I sat on the couch without moving. Hannah kicked me: “He’s the president of such a big company, yet he still cares whether you’re upset. But you’re deliberately acting like you don’t care, all high and mighty.” Her kick was filled with resentment, hitting hard and precisely on my surgically repaired knee. A few years ago, Hannah was harassed by a man on her way home from work. To save Hannah, I fought with that man and even had my right eardrum punctured. Later, the man picked up a steel rod and struck my knee hard, causing a comminuted fracture. I pressed my aching knee, my face pale and body trembling slightly. Seeing me like this, Hannah panicked a bit. “Carter, I didn’t mean to.” Hannah tried to reach out and touch me, but I dodged away. “There are painkillers in the nightstand drawer. Could you please get them for me?” Hannah looked somewhat embarrassed: “Okay. I’ll get them right now. Wait for me.” As she passed the couch, Hannah noticed the coat on the armrest. She paused and asked: “Did you go through my clothes while I was out?” “No. Why?” Hannah looked puzzled. She picked up the coat and checked the pockets before putting it down with relief. I watched her coldly. When she changed out of this coat yesterday, I wanted to help take it to the dry cleaner. I felt the pocket and found a pregnancy test report. It clearly stated that she was pregnant. I was shocked and delighted at the time. Just as I was about to text her to confirm, I saw that photo of her wearing the dog collar. Just then, the phone rang. Hannah answered—it was Thomas calling. After chatting for a bit, she turned back to me: “Carter, Thomas had too much to drink and isn’t feeling well. He wants me to come over and make him some honey lemon water. You don’t mind, do you?” Hannah didn’t wait for my answer and walked to the door to put on her shoes. “Hannah.” I called out to her. Hannah stopped impatiently: “Carter, don’t be unreasonable. Thomas drank too much and is feeling sick. You…” “You forgot your car keys.” I interrupted her. Hannah froze for a moment, then went back inside to grab her car keys. At the door, she glanced back at me as if she wanted to say something, but ultimately left without saying anything.
I watched Hannah’s figure disappear through the doorway, and the pain in my knee finally made me cry out. I struggled to move to the nightstand, swallowed some painkillers, and lay in bed for over an hour before the pain gradually subsided. Just as I was about to get up, my good friend Josiah Nelson called. He asked, “Carter, is Hannah seeing another man?” I opened Hannah’s Instagram and saw she had just posted a new update. The caption read: [Does someone think I’m a doll? He’s holding me and won’t let go. I just came over to make some honey lemon water.] In the photo, Hannah’s soft hands were tightly held in Thomas’s embrace, with an empty glass of honey lemon water sitting on the nightstand. My heart suddenly stabbed with pain. A month ago, it was Hannah’s birthday, and she threw a party with a bunch of friends. She wouldn’t let me come, saying, “We’re all girls. It would be awkward for you as a man to be there.” I ordered the most expensive cake from that restaurant online, wanting her and her friends to enjoy it together. After the cake was ready, the bakery owner called me, saying they couldn’t find a delivery driver during rush hour and didn’t know how long it would take to deliver. To make sure Hannah could have her cake on time, I rushed to the bakery and ran to the bar where her party was, carrying the cake. Cars were coming and going along the way, and someone on an electric scooter crashed into me head-on. To protect the cake, I used my body to cushion it underneath. My surgically repaired knee took another heavy blow. But I ignored the pain, first checking that the cake was intact, then got up and gritted my teeth as I headed to the bar. When I limped to the bar entrance, Hannah wouldn’t answer my calls. I had no choice but to sit by the door and wait. Passersby all stared at me, sweating profusely, and some even asked if I was a delivery driver and could help them buy cigarettes. Half an hour later, Hannah finally came out to find me. She looked disgusted and said, “Why did you come? Didn’t I tell you not to?” I forced a smile and handed her the cake I had carefully protected. I said, “I came to bring you your cake. Take it and share it with your friends.” Hannah glanced at the cake: “What kind of cake is this? Don’t you know I never eat anything made with cheap cream? You should just take it back and eat it yourself.” With that, she roughly pushed the cake back to me. I was somewhat stunned. Just then, one of Hannah’s friends came out: “Isn’t this Carter? I haven’t seen you in ages. You used to be the most handsome guy at our school, but why do you look like a beggar now?” I looked down at my clothes. They were covered in dust, my pants were torn, and blood was seeping through. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the bar’s glass door and realized I really did look like a beggar. “Since you’re already here, come in and drink with us,” she said to me. Hannah looked very unhappy, but her friend had already pulled me into the private room. As soon as I entered, I saw Thomas in his suit and designer watch. Seeing me, Thomas said in surprise, “Isn’t this Mr. Peterson? I thought it was some delivery guy refusing to leave.” Thomas was Hannah’s boss, so I couldn’t be rude to him and just sat in the corner of the sofa. Hannah sat right next to Thomas, occasionally leaning close to whisper in his ear. They looked very intimate. I had a few too many drinks and passed out on the sofa. I’ve forgotten how I got home that night. I only remember that as soon as I lay down, Hannah said to me, “Carter, go make me some honey lemon water. I don’t feel well.” My whole body ached terribly, and I couldn’t help but plead with her, “Could you please let me rest for a bit?” Hannah suddenly stood up from the sofa and pointed at my nose, scolding, “What did you say when you were pursuing me? You said you’d take care of me for life. Now I’m asking you to make me honey lemon water, and you won’t even do that. I haven’t even gotten to you yet! You showed up to my birthday party dressed like that today and completely embarrassed me! Mr. Adams even asked me how I could fall for someone like you.” In college, I also cared a lot about my appearance. After marrying Hannah, I thought these external things no longer mattered. In the end, I still went to make her honey lemon water. But when I picked it up, the water was too hot and I accidentally knocked over the glass. Hannah angrily yelled at me, “If you don’t want to do it, then don’t! Why are you taking your temper out on me?” I was about to get a broom to clean up when Hannah arrogantly ordered me, “Pick it up with your hands.” My eyes reddened and my nose felt sour. I asked, “What?” “Pick up the pieces with your hands,” Hannah repeated coldly. When I actually went to pick up the glass shards with my hands, Hannah stomped hard on my hand. The sharp pain of the shards cutting my fingers—I still remember it clearly to this day. The next evening, Hannah prepared a candlelit dinner and apologized to me. She held my hand and said, “Carter, I get temperamental when I drink too much. Don’t be mad at me.” Seeing her like that, my heart softened, and I ultimately didn’t bring up divorce. It wasn’t until I saw the Instagram post she made today that I realized how foolish I had been. I called Josiah and said, “Do you know any divorce lawyers? I want a divorce.”
Hannah’s phone call woke me up in the morning. She said over the phone, “Carter, come out quickly. I’ll treat you to something delicious.” This was always how Hannah made up with me after our fights. Before I could say anything, she hung up. I actually wanted to talk to her about the divorce, so I got dressed and headed out. Hannah took me to the restaurant we always went to. Sitting at the table, she suddenly remembered kicking me last night. She put on a pitiful expression and asked, “Is your knee okay? Does it still hurt?” I said, “It’s fine.” As soon as I finished speaking, Hannah let out a sigh of relief. She said, “That’s good. It’s been so many Christmases since then, it shouldn’t hurt anymore.” I held my breath and smiled bitterly, “Yes.” After that shattered kneecap, I had several surgeries and multiple infections. Finally, the doctor inserted steel pins into my leg bone. The side effect of the surgery was that my knee developed severe arthritis. Whenever the weather got cold, the pain would keep me awake all night. I never told Hannah about any of this, afraid she’d feel guilty. But she really never once asked about my knee on her own. Just then, a woman walked past our table. She said to Hannah, “Hannah, was that Mr. Adams in your Instagram post last night? You two are so sweet together. I just love you as a couple!” A flash of embarrassment crossed Hannah’s face: “I lost a bet to Mr. Adams, and he made me take that photo. He’s the boss—how could I dare disobey him?” I thought of her previous Instagram post about “puppies only listening to their masters” and found it incredibly ironic. The woman was stunned for a moment, looked at me, and asked Hannah, “And who is this?” Without any hesitation, Hannah said, “This is my cousin.” After the woman left, Hannah looked at me apologetically: “That woman is notorious for gossiping in our department. I was afraid she’d spread rumors, so I said you were my cousin. You’re not mad, are you?” I looked down at my phone, replying to messages dismissively: “No. Are you done eating? If so, let’s go.” Josiah had recommended a divorce lawyer and told me to find time to meet with him. On the way home, the car was quiet. Hannah initiated conversation: “Thomas really did drink too much last night. After I made him honey lemon water, he fell asleep. Nothing happened between us. Don’t be angry.” “I’m not angry.” I drove, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. Hannah glanced at me, and her expression suddenly darkened. She threw a tissue at me and said, “Carter, what’s with that attitude?” Afraid she’d cause trouble in the car, I pulled over to the side of the road. Hannah ordered me again: “Pick up that tissue.” I didn’t move, instead saying, “Hannah, haven’t you caused enough trouble?” Hannah’s eyes suddenly reddened, and she screamed at me: “Are you sure you won’t pick it up? If you don’t, I’ll run out and let a car hit me!” I remained silent, but finally bent down to pick up the tissue. As I lowered my head, I found a used condom wrapper in the seat crack. I picked it up too. Hannah suddenly panicked and hurriedly explained: “I lent my car to a coworker a few days ago. She must have left it after having sex with someone in the car.” “Okay.” I actually laughed. Seeing me laugh, Hannah suddenly became very agitated and raised her hand to hit me. She said, “What are you smirking about? Can’t you speak? People without parents are just like this—no manners at all!” I suddenly looked at Hannah, filled with rage: “What did you say? Say that again!” Hannah showed a hint of fear and instinctively covered her stomach. She said, “You dare hit me? I guarantee you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” I stared at her flat abdomen, then said calmly: “Next time, don’t do this kind of thing in the car. The space is too cramped—not only can’t it satisfy you both, but it might also hurt the baby in your belly.” Hannah’s eyes widened as she asked, “Carter, did you go through my clothes? You liar! I should never have trusted you. Get out!” “Okay.” I reached for the car door handle. Hannah was stunned for a moment, then grabbed me. She said through gritted teeth, “If you dare get out of this car today, we’re getting divorced!”
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