Chapter 2
For the next few days, I took some time off and didn't go to the hospital.
Mark's mom came over every day, mostly to look after the twins. And, of course, to keep an eye on me.
"Nora, go wash the bottles."
"Okay."
"Nora, we're out of diapers. Grab a pack from the supermarket."
"Okay."
"Nora, Sophie isn't feeling well. You make lunch today."
"Okay."
I moved around the house like a ghost, washing bottles, cooking meals, and mopping floors. Sophie lounged in the master bedroom scrolling through her phone, occasionally stepping out to boss me around.
"Nora, don't forget—the kids' clothes need their own detergent," Sophie would say.
"Got it," I'd reply.
"Nora, the food you made is way too bland. Mark doesn't like it that way," Sophie complained.
"I'll keep that in mind next time," I replied.
Every day after work, Mark would head straight to the master bedroom to check on the babies, fool around with Sophie for a while, and only then remember that I even existed.
"Nora, are you doing alright?" Mark asked.
"I'm fine," I replied.
"That's good," he sighed in relief. "If you have any thoughts about how we handle this, we can take our time and talk it through."
"I have nothing to discuss," I answered.
Mark shot me a conflicted look. "Don't shut me out like this. It really hurts me."
"As long as you're happy," I replied flatly.
He parted his lips as if to speak, but said nothing in the end, turning around and heading back to the master bedroom.
That night, lying on the bed in the guest room, I listened to the baby crying next door and Sophie trying to hush them.
I took out my phone and looked up marriage and divorce laws.
Adultery during marriage—if someone tries to hide or move assets, they might walk away with less, or even nothing, when it comes to divorce.
I pulled up the info on the house.
The 200,000 dollars for the down payment and the 90,000 dollars for renovations—all came out of my pocket.
Back then, Mark claimed his family was struggling financially and asked me to cover the costs first, promising to pay me back over time.
Three years later, he still hadn't paid me back a cent.
I opened my banking app and checked the past year's transactions.
Every month, there was a fixed transfer from my account to Mark's—our so-called "shared living expenses," 2,500 dollars a month.
Then I looked through Mark's transaction history.
Last March, he spent 13,000 dollars at a jewelry store.
Last May, he dropped 40,000 dollars at a maternity center.
Last August, he spent 7,500 dollars at a department store.
I scrolled through every single transaction, my fingers starting to shake.
It wasn't fear—it was just fury.
125,000 dollars.
He'd transferred 125,000 dollars from our joint account to Sophie.
I took a deep breath, closed the app, and sent a message to Emily Foster.
[Emily, are you there? I need to consult you on something.]
Emily had been my college roommate and was now the most prominent divorce attorney in the city.
She texted back in seconds: [Talk to me.]
[My husband cheated on me and had twins with his mistress. I want a divorce.]
There was a brief silence, then a string of voice messages popped up.
[Damn it, that bastard Mark! Don't panic. First, gather all the evidence you can—bank statements, chat logs, transfer records, everything. I'll send you a checklist. Just follow it step by step.]
"Okay."
Emily sent another text: [By the way, you paid the down payment on your house, right?]
[Yes.]
[What about the renovations?]
[Also me.]
[Then we're golden.] She followed it with a smiley face emoji. [Nora, take that bastard to the cleaners.]
I stared at the screen and didn't reply.
Outside the window, the night had grown pitch black.