Chapter 4

On Christina's wedding day, Mark went to help set up the venue at 3 AM.

Harry suddenly started convulsing with a fever.

I rushed out of the house, clutching my burning hot child, calling Mark dozens of times on the way, but he never answered.

I handled the registration, the payments, held Harry's eyes closed for his shots... all by myself.

Tears mixed with sweat streamed down my face.

It wasn't until evening that I saw a photo on a mutual friend's X (Twitter) feed.

During the ring exchange, I saw a familiar figure in a suit standing among the guests.

Just from his silhouette, I knew it was him, and he was crying.

Meanwhile, on my phone, there was a message from him, sent just hours earlier:

"If the kid has a fever, just take him to the hospital. I'm not a doctor."

In that moment, I could no longer deceive myself.

For these five years, I was just a placeholder.

Right after we got married, Christina lost a big investment and racked up debt. She called, weeping.

Mark transferred two hundred thousand dollars without a second thought.

That money was supposed to be our wedding gift fund, the down payment for our house.

When I questioned him, he retorted, with a defiant air: "She's in trouble and she came to me, what was I supposed to do?"

Later, looking at his bank statements, I realized it wasn't the first time.

She opened a business, and he provided the startup capital.

She bought a car, and he was the guarantor.

Even her utility bills were being paid from his card.

Yet for five years of our marriage, he always claimed he was "short on cash," and we even skipped our honeymoon.

One night, she called late, saying her boyfriend was out of town, and the power was out, making her scared.

Mark got dressed and left immediately.

I blocked his way at the door: "She's almost thirty, and she's afraid of the dark?"

He pushed me aside: "You don't understand, she has anxiety. If it gets bad, something could happen."

Later, I learned her so-called "anxiety" was just being unable to sleep alone.

During my postpartum depression, I spent half a year sleepless, crying all night, standing on the balcony and thinking of jumping.

He only had one cold line: "Are you just bored?"

My heart truly died.

In those five years, my light was never lit.

He poured everything into ensuring her happiness, so I would grant him his "deep affection" for her.

I called my lawyer, my voice calm: "Please draft a divorce agreement for me."