Chapter 2 · He Asked for a Divorce

The recording was still playing.

The woman's voice echoed through our living room, each word slicing through me, slow and relentless, like a rusted blade scraping at my nerves.

"Richard, when are you gonna buy me that bag you promised? The limited edition one we saw last time; if you don't get it soon, it'll be gone."

Richard said, "I'll buy it for you, I promise. Next week, okay? Whatever you want, I'll get it for you."

"And what about the house? You said you'd put my name on it."

"It's already in your name, don't worry. I bought it for you in the first place."

Richard made a desperate grab for the phone.

But Mike was ready. He swung his body aside, holding the phone out of reach. At fifteen, he was way quicker than his forty-year-old dad.

"Give me the phone." Richard's face contorted, neck veins popping.

"Sit down," Mike said.

Mike wasn't asking. He wasn't suggesting. He was commanding.

Richard's hand froze in mid-air.

He stared at his son, like he was seeing him for the very first time.

The recording ended. The living room fell silent, but that silence was more deafening than any noise.

I sat on the couch, gripping my knees so hard my nails dug in and turned white.

It felt like something inside me was breaking, not in one big crash, but slowly, bit by bit, piece by piece, falling apart. 'Is this what it feels like when your whole world shatters?' I thought.

All the pieces suddenly clicked into place.

Last October, he started wearing a freshly ironed shirt to work every single day. Before, he'd wear the same shirt for two days straight, but suddenly it was a new one every morning. I figured it was some new company rule.

In November, he switched to a new cologne. The scent was subtle, but it wasn't the brand he'd always used. I told him it smelled nice, and he just shrugged it off, saying, "A coworker recommended it."

In December, he started using a fingerprint lock on his phone. Before that, he always said a passcode was too much trouble. When I asked why he switched, he just said it was for work security.

In January, he started working late more and more often. At least three nights a week, he'd get home after eleven. His clothes would smell like hot pot or barbecue, and once, I even caught the scent of red wine on him.

In February, he went on a business trip to Shanghai for four days, said he was meeting clients. When he came back, he was in a great mood and brought Lily a Disney hair clip.

I was actually touched at the time.

In March, he suddenly asked me to hand over the family bankbook so he could "handle everything together." I didn't think twice about it. After sixteen years of marriage, I never doubted him.

Never.

"Mom." Mike's voice pulled me back to reality.

I looked at him, tears streaming down my face. I didn't even realize when I started crying.

"When did you find out?" I asked him.

He met my gaze, paused for a second, then said, "Three months ago."

Three months ago, it was the end of March.

Back then, he was buried in his books, studying late into the night and getting up at six every morning to memorize English.

I thought all he had to worry about was his exams.

"That night, I got up to get some water," he said. "I walked past your bedroom, and the door was left open a crack. I heard him on the phone."

His voice was steady, but I noticed his knuckles were white from gripping his phone so tightly.

Mike said, "He called her 'baby.' Said he was going to buy her a house. Said he'd take her to Malibu once the divorce was done."

My stomach twisted into a knot.

"I thought I was hearing things," he went on. "The next morning, he left his phone on the dining table when he went to work. He'd changed his passcode, but I'd seen him type it in before."

He glanced down at his phone screen.

"His message was pinned at the top, and the contact name was 'Jess.' The chat history went back over two hundred pages. I took screenshots and sent them to my email. Then I put his phone back where I found it."

Richard sat on the couch across from us, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered. He didn't say a word, didn't look at anyone.

"Why didn't you tell me?" My throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper.

Mike was silent for a few seconds.

"I was afraid you'd break down," he said. "If you fell apart before my exams, you'd shoulder it all alone, never let me see you fall apart.

"You'd hide your tears, still make breakfast for me every morning, still sit with me at night while I studied. But your body would give out first."

As Mike spoke, his eyes went red for a moment, but he blinked it away, not letting a single tear slip out.

"That's why I didn't say anything. While I was studying for exams, I was also preparing for all of this."

"Preparing for what, Mike?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer right away.

He stood up, walked over to the door, and grabbed his backpack.

He unzipped the black backpack, and inside, besides a few study guides and a pencil case, was a heavy manila envelope.

It was stuffed full.

He placed the envelope on the coffee table and slid it toward me.

"I've spent the last three months collecting and sorting all of this," Mike said. "There are 128 screenshots, seven audio recordings, 23 bank transfer records, and a picture of a real estate contract."

He looked at Richard.

"Dad, this January, you bought a two-bedroom apartment, about 9,500 square feet, at Grandview Estates on the East Side.

"The down payment was 150,000 dollars, and you paid the full amount in two transfers from your personal account. The name on the purchase contract is Jessica Lane."

Richard's head snapped up.

For the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes, not just the embarrassment of being caught, but the kind of fear that comes when someone has you by the throat.

"How how do you know that?" he stammered.

"In your study, the second drawer on the left has a locked folder. The lock is a three-digit combination, the same as your suitcase, both set to Jessica Lane's birthday."

Mike's voice was steady and emotionless, like a precision recorder, listing off each detail without a hint of feeling.

He said, "You thought locking it up would keep it safe. But you forgot; there's a factory-default master reset button on that lock."

He paused, looking straight at his father. "The night I got my hands on that contract, I didn't sleep at all. Not because I was upset. I kept thinking about how to make sure Mom doesn't lose out at all in this divorce."

I started crying again.

But this time, it wasn't because I was hurt.

It was because I felt so bad for him.

My fifteen-year-old son, at an age when he should've only been worrying about exams, had been shouldering everything for me these past three months.

Lily had quietly moved to my side, her little head resting on my knee, her hand clutching my shirt tightly.

Richard opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

Finally, he managed to say, "You think all this is enough to—"

"This is just the appetizer," Mike cut him off.

His gaze was calm, almost looked sorry for him.

"Dad, wanna hear what Monica thinks?" Mike said.

"Monica?" Richard blinked, caught off guard. "Which Monica?"

"Mom's college roommate," Mike replied. "She's a partner at Integrity Law Group, and she handles divorce cases for a living. She even had a case featured on Justice Today last year."

He pulled out his phone, scrolled to a conversation, and held it up for Richard to see.

It was a transcript from a voice message. [Mike, I checked out everything you sent over.

[The evidence is airtight—recordings, screenshots, and bank transfers all match up. If this goes to court, your mom, as the innocent party, can easily get two-thirds or even more of the assets.

[The house your dad tried to hide? The court will take it right back. Don't worry, I'll do everything I can to help you guys.]

Chapter 2

The recording was still playing.

The woman's voice echoed through our living room, each word slicing through me, slow and relentless, like a rusted blade scraping at my nerves.

"Richard, when are you gonna buy me that bag you promised? The limited edition one we saw last time; if you don't get it soon, it'll be gone."

Richard said, "I'll buy it for you, I promise. Next week, okay? Whatever you want, I'll get it for you."

"And what about the house? You said you'd put my name on it."

"It's already in your name, don't worry. I bought it for you in the first place."

Richard made a desperate grab for the phone.

But Mike was ready. He swung his body aside, holding the phone out of reach. At fifteen, he was way quicker than his forty-year-old dad.

"Give me the phone." Richard's face contorted, neck veins popping.

"Sit down," Mike said.

Mike wasn't asking. He wasn't suggesting. He was commanding.

Richard's hand froze in mid-air.

He stared at his son, like he was seeing him for the very first time.

The recording ended. The living room fell silent, but that silence was more deafening than any noise.

I sat on the couch, gripping my knees so hard my nails dug in and turned white.

It felt like something inside me was breaking, not in one big crash, but slowly, bit by bit, piece by piece, falling apart. 'Is this what it feels like when your whole world shatters?' I thought.

All the pieces suddenly clicked into place.

In December, he started using a fingerprint lock on his phone. Before that, he always said a passcode was too much trouble. When I asked why he switched, he just said it was for work security.

In February, he went on a business trip to Shanghai for four days, said he was meeting clients. When he came back, he was in a great mood and brought Lily a Disney hair clip.

I was actually touched at the time.

In March, he suddenly asked me to hand over the family bankbook so he could "handle everything together." I didn't think twice about it. After sixteen years of marriage, I never doubted him.

Never.

"Mom." Mike's voice pulled me back to reality.

I looked at him, tears streaming down my face. I didn't even realize when I started crying.

"When did you find out?" I asked him.

He met my gaze, paused for a second, then said, "Three months ago."

Three months ago, it was the end of March.

Back then, he was buried in his books, studying late into the night and getting up at six every morning to memorize English.

I thought all he had to worry about was his exams.

"That night, I got up to get some water," he said. "I walked past your bedroom, and the door was left open a crack. I heard him on the phone."

His voice was steady, but I noticed his knuckles were white from gripping his phone so tightly.

Mike said, "He called her 'baby.' Said he was going to buy her a house. Said he'd take her to Malibu once the divorce was done."

My stomach twisted into a knot.

"I thought I was hearing things," he went on. "The next morning, he left his phone on the dining table when he went to work. He'd changed his passcode, but I'd seen him type it in before."

He glanced down at his phone screen.

Richard sat on the couch across from us, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered. He didn't say a word, didn't look at anyone.

"Why didn't you tell me?" My throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper.

Mike was silent for a few seconds.

"I was afraid you'd break down," he said. "If you fell apart before my exams, you'd shoulder it all alone, never let me see you fall apart.

"You'd hide your tears, still make breakfast for me every morning, still sit with me at night while I studied. But your body would give out first."

As Mike spoke, his eyes went red for a moment, but he blinked it away, not letting a single tear slip out.

"That's why I didn't say anything. While I was studying for exams, I was also preparing for all of this."

"Preparing for what, Mike?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer right away.

He stood up, walked over to the door, and grabbed his backpack.

He unzipped the black backpack, and inside, besides a few study guides and a pencil case, was a heavy manila envelope.

It was stuffed full.

He placed the envelope on the coffee table and slid it toward me.

He looked at Richard.

"Dad, this January, you bought a two-bedroom apartment, about 9,500 square feet, at Grandview Estates on the East Side.

"The down payment was 150,000 dollars, and you paid the full amount in two transfers from your personal account. The name on the purchase contract is Jessica Lane."

Richard's head snapped up.

For the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes, not just the embarrassment of being caught, but the kind of fear that comes when someone has you by the throat.

"How how do you know that?" he stammered.

"In your study, the second drawer on the left has a locked folder. The lock is a three-digit combination, the same as your suitcase, both set to Jessica Lane's birthday."

Mike's voice was steady and emotionless, like a precision recorder, listing off each detail without a hint of feeling.

He said, "You thought locking it up would keep it safe. But you forgot; there's a factory-default master reset button on that lock."

I started crying again.

But this time, it wasn't because I was hurt.

It was because I felt so bad for him.

My fifteen-year-old son, at an age when he should've only been worrying about exams, had been shouldering everything for me these past three months.

Lily had quietly moved to my side, her little head resting on my knee, her hand clutching my shirt tightly.

Richard opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

Finally, he managed to say, "You think all this is enough to—"

"This is just the appetizer," Mike cut him off.

His gaze was calm, almost looked sorry for him.

"Dad, wanna hear what Monica thinks?" Mike said.

"Monica?" Richard blinked, caught off guard. "Which Monica?"

"Mom's college roommate," Mike replied. "She's a partner at Integrity Law Group, and she handles divorce cases for a living. She even had a case featured on Justice Today last year."

He pulled out his phone, scrolled to a conversation, and held it up for Richard to see.

It was a transcript from a voice message. [Mike, I checked out everything you sent over.

[The evidence is airtight—recordings, screenshots, and bank transfers all match up. If this goes to court, your mom, as the innocent party, can easily get two-thirds or even more of the assets.

[The house your dad tried to hide? The court will take it right back. Don't worry, I'll do everything I can to help you guys.]