Family KPI System

My husband, Mark, said that to ensure my contributions were never taken for granted, he was implementing a family KPI system. He quantified every household chore into a point system. If I did well, I earned points. If I fell short, points were deducted. For three years, I worked diligently, accumulating 200,000 points. On our wedding anniversary, I saw a necklace I loved and asked to redeem some of my points for it. Mark slammed his chopsticks on the table, his face contorted with anger. He called me vain and wasteful. I tried to reason with him. “But you promised they could be cashed in!” He let out a cold, contemptuous laugh. “The points are a reward for being an adequate wife, not an ATM for your vanity!” Just then, his phone rang. It was his childhood sweetheart. His tone shifted, becoming a gentle murmur I had never heard him use with me. “Zoe, don’t cry. So what if the project failed? I ordered you a new car tomorrow, three hundred thousand dollars. Think of it as a reward for having the courage to try.” I stood frozen, the words dying in my throat. The next day, I filed for divorce on the grounds of emotional abuse and psychological control. I also demanded he pay me for three years of labor, corresponding to my 200,000 points, at the standard market rate for domestic services. 1. A bitter smile touched my lips. Mark glanced at me, his brow furrowed. “What are you laughing at?” “My two hundred thousand points can’t get me a three-thousand-dollar necklace, but a few of her tears can get her a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Mark, what exactly are your rules?” He ended the call and steepled his fingers, assuming the calm, rational, and unassailable posture he used in court. “Nina, I thought you were a sensible person,” he began, his voice devoid of emotion. “Zoe’s situation is different. She’s like a sister to me, someone I’ve watched grow up. Her career took a hit; she needs support.” He shifted his gaze to me, as if I were a line item on a balance sheet. “Your KPI point growth for the last quarter decreased by two-point-one percent compared to the previous one. Your household efficiency needs improvement. Under these circumstances, purchasing a three-thousand-dollar necklace is a classic impulse buy. It’s irrational. And it’s vain.” The KPI he spoke of was the system he had designed for me three years ago. Cleaning the house: 10 points. Cooking a four-course dinner with soup: 8 points. Hand-washing one of his expensive shirts: 5 points. For three years, I had performed these tasks day in and day out, meticulously tracking my score. He had called it a quantification of love and dedication, a promise that no effort would ever be overlooked. But looking at his cold, impassive face now, the whole thing felt like a grotesque farce. My love, my dedication—in his eyes, it was just a string of data that could be dismissed at his whim. He stood up and walked to the entryway to change his shoes. “Zoe’s not in a good place. I’ll be staying with her for a few days.” “Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. You said you’d be with me.” “I’ll try my best.” My heart went cold. Last year on our anniversary, he’d said he’d “try his best” to come home. He ended up spending the entire day with Zoe because she’d sprained her ankle. On my birthday, he’d said he’d “try his best” to be there. He ended up at Zoe’s promotion party. The day I had surgery for an ectopic pregnancy, he’d said he’d “try his best” to make it. A single phone call from Zoe about a breakup was all it took for him to leave me alone on the operating table. When Zoe was involved, anything concerning me became an optional task, something to be handled with a half-hearted “try.” I had confronted him about it once, screaming and crying. He had just rubbed his temples, his face weary, saying he had a duty to look after her for the sake of their families’ long-standing friendship. Even his mother had called to subtly warn me not to be so petty. The door clicked shut, sealing me in my world, him in his. I looked at the cold, untouched dishes on the table and laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. 2. I walked into the study, my fingers tracing the spines of the thick, logbook-like journals on the shelf. Each one was embossed with gold lettering: The Miller Household: Annual Operations Report. Mark’s masterpiece. I opened the first volume. On the flyleaf, in his bold, confident script, were the words: To my Nina: Love is something you do, not something you say. I promise you, every ounce of your effort will be recorded and cherished, never in vain. The date was the first day of our marriage. “Nina,” he had said, “traditional marriage is too vague, too full of emotional arguments. We’re a modern couple. We need a more scientific, more efficient way to run our home.” “This KPI assessment will be the bedrock of our marriage. It will translate all your labor into tangible value. I guarantee you can redeem your points for anything you want, anytime.” Back then, I was captivated by the future he painted. I thought this was his way of loving me—meticulous, serious, unique. So I began to document my every chore with the dedication of a research scientist. The densely packed pages were a record of my youth, quantified. I thought I was accumulating proof of our love. It turns out I was just filling out an unpaid labor contract. I opened my phone and scrolled through my chat history with Mark. The last message was from three days ago, a reminder from me to pay the homeowners’ association fee. His reply was a cold, one-word “OK.” Scrolling up, it was an endless stream of my detailed reports and his brief, directive responses. And his chat with Zoe? I had accidentally seen it on his computer once. He replied thoughtfully to every silly photo of a cat or dog she sent. He patiently played along with every one of her bad jokes. When she complained about work being hard, he would transfer her a huge sum of money without a second thought. His warmth, his patience, his generosity—they all existed. They just weren’t for me. The ringing of my phone startled me. It was Mark’s assistant. “Mrs. Miller, do you know where Mark is? There’s an urgent case at the firm, and his phone is going straight to voicemail.” Whenever he was with Zoe, Mark’s phone was on silent. Worried it was something important, I grabbed my car keys. “I’ll go find him. Don’t worry.” I had just parked when I saw them. Mark, Zoe, and his best friend, Leo, were walking out of a high-end restaurant, laughing. Zoe was clinging to Mark’s arm affectionately. “Zoe, you’ve got some serious pull,” Leo joked. “Getting our star lawyer to ditch his own wedding anniversary for you.” Zoe giggled, practically draping herself over Mark. “What’s Nina? She’s just a free maid. It was my idea, you know. I told him to set up that stupid KPI thing. And she actually fell for it, slaving away to earn points. She’s such an idiot.” Leo roared with laughter. “An idiot is right. Who else would marry him with no dowry, not even a proper wedding?” Their words were like poisoned needles, stabbing into my heart. Just as I was about to storm out, Leo asked Mark, “Seriously, man. What did you ever see in her?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer. Mark’s voice cut through the frigid air, each word a shard of ice piercing my soul. “Obedient. Free.” I stood frozen, a dull, aching pain spreading from my chest. Zoe, clearly delighted with his answer, pressed even closer. “Mark, if I hadn’t gone abroad in a huff back then, you wouldn’t have married her, would you?” Mark was silent for a moment. He turned to look at her, his eyes filled with a softness I had never seen. “Zoe, you deserve to be free. To have your own dreams and a career. I didn’t want you to be trapped in a home by me.” A roar filled my ears. The last thread of my sanity snapped. Three years ago, I had just received a translation offer from a major corporation. My future was bright. Mark proposed. He said he needed a stable home and hoped I would quit my demanding job for him. 3. I had hesitated, unwilling to give up my career. He held my hand, his eyes sincere. “I can’t do this without you,” he’d said. His profession required a supportive partner at home. But he didn’t want me to be an undervalued housewife. “This KPI assessment, it will make all your labor tangible. I promise, every contribution you make will be seen, will be quantified.” He had used a set of seemingly fair rules to put a price tag on my worth, manipulating me into willingly sacrificing myself to become a convenient tool in his life. All so the woman he truly loved could soar, unburdened. They laughed as they walked towards their car. The moment Mark opened the door, he saw me. He froze, and then his expression darkened. “What are you doing here? Stalking me? Is it about that necklace? Do you really have to have it?” Zoe looped her arm through his, tilting her head as she looked at me with a sweet, venomous smile. “Oh, that’s just how housewives are. They don’t earn money, but they sure know how to spend it. And they’re so clingy. Don’t be mad, Mark.” Mark frowned at me, issuing a command. “Go home. You’re not getting the money. This month’s non-essential spending is already three percent over budget. If you want the necklace, you can wait until next month.” Leo watched the drama unfold, whispering to the others. I felt a wave of shame so intense I wanted to run. But then I clenched my fists. My fingertips brushed against the familiar roughness of my skin, a testament to three years of daily immersion in cold water and harsh chemicals. Suddenly, I found my courage. I was not the one who should be ashamed. Love is not a KPI. Marriage is not a transaction. I looked at the man I had loved for so many years, my gaze hardening. “Let’s get a divorce, Mark.” He scoffed. “Now you’re just being hysterical.” The car sped off, leaving me standing alone in the biting wind.

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