Chapter 2

The year we got married, the Pain-Share Protocol was already a mature medical technology.

Julian was the only man among our friends who actively took his wife to the hospital to bind the Pain-Share Link.

What did he say back then?

I remembered. He said, "Giving birth isn't just your responsibility, Vivian. I want to do everything I can to share the burden."

On the day of delivery, I heard that men’s pain tolerance was far lower than women's. I saw several husbands being carried out of the delivery room, completely passed out and hooked to IVs. Out of sheer love, I begged the doctors to unbind us.

But what did Julian do?

He held my hand firmly and told me, "I'm here. Don't worry."

During labor, I felt like my body was being ripped apart from the center. The pain was so intense that I wanted to grab a knife and end my own life just to stop the torture.

In the few seconds I regained consciousness, I kept thinking about how much Julian was sacrificing for me. He didn't have to suffer this.

So, after we brought the baby home, I took over every single household chore to repay his "sacrifice" and love.

I worked while raising our son, choosing to step back and let Julian take the career promotions so he could shine.

Because Julian was a neat freak, I knelt on the floor every single day, scrubbing it three times with a rag.

Once, Julian's shoulder was accidentally impaled by a steel bar at a construction site. Before he even got to the ER, I ignored everyone's warnings and linked my pain to his so he wouldn't slip into shock. That incident left me with a permanent, aching nerve condition.

I slaved away for decades, to the point where I looked old enough to be his mother.

And today, they told me that the labor pain-split never even existed.

Not only that, but he had actually doubled my pain just to gain moral leverage over me.

I walked numbly to the bathroom, changed out of my soiled pants, poured in detergent and disinfectant, and routinely scrubbed, wrung, and hung them on the balcony.

Staring at the underwear that took up half the balcony, I cried harder and harder, as if trying to wash the stupidity out of my brain.

For all these years, my postpartum bladder leaks had been far worse than any of my friends'.

I always thought it was because my body was naturally weak. I had blamed myself over and over, asking why I was so fragile.

I never imagined it was all because of Julian.

Ethan heard the crying and walked out of his room. Without even asking what was wrong, he snapped, "What are you crying for? You're at this age, aren't you embarrassed?"

"And that puddle on the floor outside my room—you're just going to leave it there? That’s disgusting!"

"Ethan, don't talk to your mother like that. She’s just busy. She’ll clean it up in a minute."

Julian was still playing the role of the understanding, loving husband, lecturing Ethan.

But this time, I didn't miss the flash of disgust in his eyes. It was crystal clear.

He looked at my wet pants, finally realizing what had happened. He went to the bathroom, grabbed the mop, cleaned up the wet spot on the floor, and rinsed the mop several times to get rid of the smell.

Finally, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, gently patting my back.

"Vivian, you've worked so hard all these years. It’s my fault for not doing enough. I’ll make it up to you from now on."

The same sweet, empty promises.

But I only felt a chill run down my spine. I wanted to ask him, *Is this another "emotional value" lesson you're teaching our son?*