Chapter 2

After we got married, our monthly mortgage payment was 1,900 dollars.

Patrick ran a small business. When things were going well, he'd bring home some cash. But if he wasn't making money, he wouldn't give me a dime.

For more than sixty months out of those eight years, I was the only one paying the mortgage.

As for the rest of the months, he'd sometimes transfer about a thousand dollars per month, but never once did he cover the full payment.

I did the math. By the start of this year, I'd poured more than 240 thousand dollars into that house, all told.

Meanwhile, Patrick had chipped in less than 50 thousand dollars.

But when he was out drinking with his friends, he'd say, "My house? I spent over half a year house-hunting before I finally settled on it."

He called it "my house."

I was in the kitchen cooking when I overheard him.

I didn't say a word. I just kept stir-frying.

That day, I was cooking his favorite. Seared steak with roasted asparagus and baby potatoes.

He always wanted the steak sliced extra thin, and only liked it with those curled ribbons of roasted bell peppers.

I had been cutting it like that for eight years.

During our first year of marriage, Patrick would still grab my bag for me when I got home from work.

In the second year, he stopped carrying my bag, but at least he'd ask, "Did you have a busy day?"

By the third year, he didn't even ask anymore.

Every day after work, I'd come home, cook dinner, do the dishes, and tidy up the house.

Meanwhile, he'd be sprawled on the couch, glued to his phone.

Every now and then, he'd glance up and say, "Don't forget to pay the property management fee tomorrow."

One day in our fifth year of marriage, I came down with a high fever at 104°F.

I called Patrick, but he said he was out on business and told me to go to the hospital alone.

I took a cab to the hospital on my own.

I checked in, had my blood drawn, and got hooked up to an IV.

There was a girl in the next bed, and her boyfriend was peeling an orange for her.

I watched them for a while. Then I looked down at my phone. There was no message from Patrick.

I got back home after the IV drip, but Patrick was nowhere to be found.

I found yesterday's leftovers in the fridge, warmed them up, and ate alone. Then, I did the dishes.

I ripped the IV tape off the back of my hand and tossed it in the trash.

The next day, when Patrick finally came home, I told him I'd had a fever and gone to the hospital.

He just said, "Better now?"

"Better now?" That was all Patrick said. Then he headed straight for the shower.

I sat on the couch, the mark from the IV still visible on the back of my hand.

I didn't even know if I got better.

That year, on our wedding anniversary. It was our sixth year together.

I made a reservation at a restaurant. I let Patrick know a week ahead.

He just said, "Okay." I got to the restaurant half an hour early.

I waited until it was time for our reservation.

However, Patrick didn't show up.

I called him, and he said he'd forgotten. He was out drinking with a few friends.

"Just start eating without me. I'll try to get there," he said.

I waited for an hour.

The waiter stopped by three times, asking if I wanted to add more dishes. The third time, I told him I was done and asked for the check.

I ate alone and paid 160 dollars.

On the way home, I kept thinking about how many times Patrick had said, "I'll try to make it."

He'd said it so many times, like "I'll try to pick you up. I'll try to come home for dinner. I'll try to spend the weekend with you."

But he never actually followed through on any of those "I'll try" promises.

When I got home that night, he still wasn't there.

I put the rest of the red wine back in the fridge.

I took a shower, crawled into bed, and turned off the light.

I lay there, thinking about the past eight years.

I wondered when he stopped saying "I love you." I couldn't even remember. He hardly ever said it at all.

I stayed at Lucy's place for three days.

On the third night, I started looking into things.

I wasn't sitting at my computer, calmly investigating. I just grabbed my phone and started scrolling through everything, one swipe at a time, driven by emotion rather than logic.

My hands were trembling as I scrolled.

I started with the payment records. That was the first thing I opened.

Patrick and I had the same bank card linked to our accounts.

He used to say, "We're a couple, so we should keep our finances together."

Back then, I thought it meant he trusted me. Now I know it was just about convenience.

I scrolled back through the records. There were transaction records for every month.

The first transaction that made me pause.

Patrick sent one thousand dollars to Penelope Sanchez with a memo that said: [For this month.]

For this month? For what?

I kept scrolling.

This time it was 1,700 dollars to Penelope with the memo: [For rent]

Rent? Did she have her own house?

No. She lived at my place. So this "rent" must be for wherever she stayed before.

I kept scrolling.

[Transferred 1,000 dollars to Penelope Sanchez.]

[Transferred 700 dollars to Penelope Sanchez.]

[Transferred 2,700 dollars to Penelope Sanchez. Memo: Happy birthday, baby.]

2,700 dollars. Just like that. He sent Penelope 2,700 dollars as a birthday gift.

Last time it was my birthday, Patrick just sent me 70 dollars and said, "Buy whatever you want."

I kept scrolling. Every month, there were at least two or three transactions to Penelope. The least was 700 dollars, and the most was 2,700 dollars.

I scrolled back to two years ago. These transfers started two years ago.

I figured his business was tough these past couple of years, and he kept saying he was pouring everything into his deals, so I ended up covering the mortgage myself.

He told me, "Once the project pays off, I'll make it up to you double."

I really believed him.

My monthly salary was 4,000 dollars. After paying the 1,900-dollar mortgage, whatever was left had to cover utilities, property fees, groceries, his car insurance, and holiday money for both our parents.

By the end of each month, I'd be lucky to have 300 dollars left in my account.

Once, at a team dinner, the bill came out to 60 dollars per person. I hesitated to pay for it.