Chapter 7

I slid the key into the lock and turned it. The moment the door swung open, the familiar scent of the apartment washed over me, mixed with the heavy, stale air that had lingered all night.

Everything looked the same as when I left yesterday, but somehow, it all felt different now.

The magazine I hadn't finished reading last night was still spread out on the coffee table.

The carpet still bore the faint imprint from when Anthony walked out with his hair wet. There was still a small puddle of water by the bathroom door.

I stood in the entryway, feeling like an intruder in what used to be my own home.

The bedroom door was left slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

The bed was a mess, the blanket half-dragged onto the floor. It was proof he'd been tossing and turning alone all night.

Our wedding photo was still sitting on the nightstand, both of us smiling wide. Now, it felt almost mocking, like the universe was laughing at me.

My eyes fell on the dresser corner, where a small, locked drawer was mine. Inside were some pieces of jewelry I hardly ever wore, backup copies of important documents, and a hardcover notebook.

I walked over, took out the key, and unlocked it.

The notebook was at the very bottom, its dark green cover worn around the edges. It was my old diary from before I got married, filled with girlish secrets and bits of work notes.

After I got married, I never opened it again. I'd almost forgotten it was there.

On a whim, I took it out and opened it to a random page. The date was four years ago, back when Anthony and I had just started dating.

My handwriting was a bit messy as I wrote about one of our dates. He walked me home, and we bumped into a woman downstairs who looked exhausted, her eyes puffy and red.

Anthony's face changed instantly, and he rushed over, asking her a bunch of questions, clearly worried.

Though I felt a little uncomfortable, my diary said: [He told me she was an older neighbor who'd hit a rough patch. He is such a good guy.]

That woman from next door was Jennie.

I flipped through the pages quickly. There were scattered entries like that. Each time, it was another chance encounter, and Anthony always showed an unusual amount of concern.

Whenever I doubted, he'd explain it away as him being soft-hearted, nostalgic, or wanting to help. In the end, I'd comfort myself: [He treats everyone so well. Surely he'll treat me better.]

It turned out the signs were there all along. I let myself be blinded by so-called love, always finding ways to justify his strange behavior and painting him as some saint just because he was kind.

I closed the diary, the cold cover biting into my palm. I stuffed the diary, along with my ID, passport, diploma, and all my other important documents, into the big tote bag I'd brought with me.

Then I headed to the study. It was Anthony's study.

When we got married, he insisted on having a quiet space to work, so I pretty much stayed out, except when I had to clean up.

Now I pushed the door open and found the desk a mess, covered in scattered papers.

I walked over. On top was a medical report from Central City Organ Transplant Center dated two months ago, with Anthony's name on it.

When I flipped to the back, the compatibility tests were all highlighted in yellow.

Scattered nearby were a few test results and evaluation notices, all about the kidney transplant.

A printed list of precautions was also there, with careful notes in red ink. They were in Anthony's handwriting.

At the very bottom was a light gray folder. I pulled it out and opened it.

Inside was a thick stack of bank transfer receipts, spanning from five years ago to last month. Every single one was sent to Jennie.

The notes on the receipts said things like [living expenses], [medical bills], and sometimes [rent] or [nutritional supplements]. Some of the receipts had edges curling up from being handled so much.

My fingertips were numb with cold as I flipped through each one. Every slip of paper silently proved that another woman had been living off my husband for five years, and I never knew.

On paper, I was his wife, like a fool in the dark, carefully budgeting for our future while he secretly bankrolled hers.

I took out my phone, carefully adjusted the angle, and snapped clear photos of the medical report, the kidney transplant assessment forms, and every single bank transfer receipt, documenting them one by one for evidence.

Just then, I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

I froze, then hurriedly shoved the papers back where they belonged, grabbed my bag and the gray folder, and backed toward the study doorway.