Chapter 1

1

I saw the box of condoms in Simon’s bag, and my hands started to tremble.

Married for seven years, we’d been sleeping in separate rooms for three.

His mother said I was paranoid. His sister rolled her eyes: “My brother works overtime every day; how would he have time to cheat? Are you okay, sister-in-law?”

Simon stood by, saying nothing.

I didn't make a scene either.

That night, I packed my bags. The next day, I slapped the divorce papers onto his office desk.

He froze: “Just because of a box of condoms? I told you, a colleague left it in my car.”

“Fine,” I nodded. “Then let that colleague explain it to me.”

He fell silent.

His entire family took turns trying to persuade me not to be “difficult.”

My mother even called: “He doesn’t hit you, he doesn’t curse you, and he gives you all his earnings. What more do you want?”

What do I want?

I just suddenly remembered that on our wedding night, when he was drunk, he’d hugged me and called out another name.

I pretended not to hear.

I pretended for seven years.

…

I’d taken a photo of that box of condoms and saved it on my phone.

A pack of three, one opened, two remaining.

I hadn’t used them.

Simon never had the chance to use them either.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t willing; he always had an excuse. Overtime fatigue, too much drinking at client dinners, an early start tomorrow. Eventually, he stopped even making excuses, just showered and went into the guest room, shutting the door. Before I fell asleep, I’d hear the sound of short videos from there, sometimes the same video on repeat several times, sometimes him sending voice messages, his voice kept very low.

I never asked him who he was talking to. Asking would only make it seem like I cared too much.

When his mother came to persuade me, I was tidying his closet. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching me fold his winter sweaters one by one, her mouth never still: “Honestly, you, living a perfectly good life, insisting on causing trouble. You know what Simon’s temper is like, don’t you? If he were really doing something, would he let you find that?!”

I didn’t speak.

She continued: “I asked him, and he said it was a colleague’s. The colleague was in his car and left it there. Men, you know, a simple explanation for something like that should be enough, but you keep harping on it. Of course he’s annoyed with you.”

I put a sweater into a storage bin and looked up at her. “Mom, what kind of colleague leaves condoms in someone else’s car?”

She froze for a second, her expression shifting, then she stood up to leave. At the doorway, she tossed back: “You always want to think the worst. I can’t be bothered with you.”

His sister was even more direct. She posted a long message in the family group chat. I didn’t read it all, only scanned the last few lines: “…sister-in-law, don’t be too much. If my brother really had someone else, he’d have divorced you already. Would he need to hide it? Do you think you’re so special?”

I left the group.

Simon came home very late that night, past eleven. I was sitting in the living room, the TV on without sound. He saw me when he took off his shoes, paused, said nothing, and walked straight to the guest room.

“Simon,” I called him.

He stopped, not turning around.

“That box of condoms, whose was it?”

He was silent for a few seconds, then turned. On his face was the same gentle, flawless expression I’d seen for seven years. “I told you, it was a colleague’s. A Mr. Brooks, you’ve met him. The one who sat next to me at the company dinner last time.”

I looked at him.

He looked back at me, his gaze open and honest. So honest that I almost believed him.

“Then have him tell me,” I said. “Right now, call him.”

His brow furrowed, that gentleness finally cracking. “Are you crazy?”

I didn’t say anything.

He continued: “I explained, but you don’t believe me, insisting on making such a scene? It’s just a box of condoms. I didn’t actually do anything. Is it really worth this?”

Just a box of condoms.

I didn’t actually do anything.

I stared at his face, suddenly feeling like he was a stranger.

Seven years ago, on our wedding day, he was drunk. In our bridal suite, he hugged me and called out “Ava.” Not my name. I froze, and he froze too. In that instant, his eyes cleared for a second, then he hugged me tighter, mumbling he was just drunk, not to take it seriously.

I did take it seriously.

But I never asked.

Ava, I found out later, was his college girlfriend. They dated for three or four years, broke up after graduation. I’d seen photos: round face, single eyelids, eyes curving into two lines when she smiled. Completely different from me.

I thought marriage would fix things. Hearts are made of flesh and blood; with time, they warm up. I cooked for him, washed his clothes, bore him a son, and cared for his mother. The month his mother was hospitalized, I rushed to the hospital every day after work. Even the family members of the patient in the next bed praised my filial piety. He held my hand then and said, “You’ve worked so hard.”

I thought he was sincere.

Now, looking back, it might have just been politeness.

I wrote the divorce papers myself. I found a template online, tweaked a few things, and printed out two copies. He came home early that day, saw the documents on the coffee table, and picked them up to read.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

He put the papers down, sat opposite me, and lit a cigarette. We’d been married for seven years; he never smoked inside the house.

“Fine,” he said, exhaling smoke. “What do you want? Just say it.”

I looked at him, my eyes suddenly burning. Not with sadness. But with the realization of my own foolishness. He didn't even try to stop me.

“I don’t want anything,” I said. “Our son stays with me. You can keep everything else.”

He paused. “You don’t want anything?”

“No.”

He took another puff of his cigarette, then fell silent. After a long time, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, stood up, and walked towards the guest room. At the doorway, he stopped.

“That box of condoms,” he said, his back to me, his voice very low, “it was hers.”

I clenched my fingers.

“Her name is Ava.”

I knew.

“We’ve been together for six months. I didn’t mean to hide it from you; I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

I closed my eyes.

“Is there anything else you want to ask?”

I shook my head. He couldn’t see, but he seemed to sense it. He pushed the door open and went into the guest room. The door closed softly.

I sat in the living room for a long time, the TV still silent. Later, I stood up and stood by the guest room door for a while. No sound from inside. I went back to the master bedroom and locked the door.

The next morning, he left for work. I heard him open the front door, then soft footsteps, stopping at the master bedroom door. He waited a few seconds. Then he left. I stayed in bed until noon, then got up and glanced into the guest room. The blanket was neatly folded. On the bedside table lay the divorce papers, signed. A box of cigarettes was tucked next to it. I picked it up; it was empty. The ashtray was full of butts.

2

The day I moved out, his mother called. I had just stuffed my suitcase into the trunk when my phone vibrated in my bag. I pulled it out; her name. I answered. Before I could speak, she launched into it.

“You think you’re so tough now, don’t you? Just up and leave, did you even ask the Campbell family?” I leaned against the car door, looking up at the window of the apartment we’d lived in for seven years. The curtains were drawn. “How has Simon ever wronged you? He gives you his paychecks, never goes out womanizing, just lies around at home—that’s because he’s tired! But you, you find one little thing and cause a scene, making such a fuss that you divorce. How do you expect relatives and friends to look at our family?”

I said, “Mom, he cheated.”

There was a second of silence. “Cheated on what? He didn’t do anything with that woman, just chatted and had meals. He told me himself. Men, you know, it’s normal to have someone to talk to outside. You’re always at home, controlling everything. He’s under a lot of pressure; what’s wrong with him finding someone to confide in?”

I gripped my phone, my fingers a little stiff. “He said they didn’t have sex. Those condoms were bought but not used. You didn’t catch him in the act, so why are you making accusations?” I wanted to say, not used because he didn’t have time to use them yet, right? But I didn’t. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

“Alright, alright, if you want to divorce, then divorce. Don’t regret it later. With your temper, who would ever want you?”

The call ended. I stood for a moment, then tossed my phone into my bag, got in the car, and started the engine. As I drove out of the complex, the window in the rearview mirror grew smaller and smaller. I didn’t cry.

Later, I learned that his mother’s words weren’t just spoken in anger. She truly believed no one would want me.

The day the divorce was finalized, I ran into his sister at the registry office. She was arm-in-arm with her boyfriend. They had just gotten their marriage certificate, smiles on their faces. When she saw me, her smile faltered, then she rolled her eyes. “Oh, sister-in-law—no, ex-sister-in-law,” she intentionally drew out the words. “Today’s a good day, we both got our papers.”

I ignored her and walked past. She scoffed behind me, her voice not too loud, but just enough for me to hear: “Keep acting up, you’ll end up a two-time divorcee. See who wants you then.”

I stopped.

Turned to look at her.

She seemed a little nervous, hiding behind her boyfriend.

I didn’t say anything, just turned and got in my car.

Actually, I couldn’t blame her for saying that. The Campbells had always spoken that way. The first year of marriage, his mother and I argued over a small matter. His sister chimed in, telling me, an outsider, not to be ungrateful. Simon was standing there then, and he didn’t say a word. Later, I asked him, “Your sister said I was an outsider, why didn’t you say anything?” He said, “That’s just how she is. Don’t pay her any mind.”

I said, “Then what am I?” He looked at me, a hint of helplessness in his eyes. “You’re my wife.”

I believed him then.