Caught My Husband Dating His First Love

On the eve of our anniversary, Quincy entered a hotel hand-in-hand with his first love.

I dialed his number, but it was our thirteen-year-old son, Mason, who answered.

“Dad is in a parent-teacher meeting. Outsiders are not allowed to disturb him!” Mason said coldly and then promptly blocked me.

That night, father and son punished me for “disrupting the family harmony.” They locked me out on the windy open balcony, forcing me to stand there the entire night.

This time, I really learned my lesson.

Feverish and weak, I handed over the divorce agreement and took the initiative to file for divorce from Quincy!

——

In the study, upon hearing the word “divorce,” Quincy didn’t even raise his head and kept working. I waited for an hour.

Just as I was about to faint, he finally spoke, “Shannon, you’re going to divorce me just because I made you stand in the cold for a while? You were in the wrong first, weren’t you?”

I opened my mouth but held back the urge to argue for the first time. I simply said, “Just sign it.”

Quincy responded indifferently, “I’ll take custody of Mason; you don’t mind, right?”

Seeing me nod, he raised an eyebrow in surprise. Still, to appear “fair,” he called Mason into the study and asked:

“After your mom and I divorce, who would you like to live with?”

Mason, undoubtedly his father’s son, not only resembled Quincy in appearance but also matched his cold, condescending gaze as he looked at me.

“I’m a Smith, not a White,” Mason replied.

In the past, hearing this would’ve left me sleepless, silently crying until dawn. But after last night, my love as a mother for Mason had long faded.

Without even glancing at him, I turned and walked into my bedroom.

After thirteen years of marriage, I had devoted myself to taking care of Quincy and Mason, leaving me with few personal belongings. In less than ten minutes, I was packed.

Dragging my suitcase, I walked out of the room. Quincy was sitting on the sofa watching the stock market. Without looking back, he said:

“Where are you going? I’ll have the driver take you.”

“No need.”

Fighting off the dizziness from my fever, I walked toward the door. Just then, a golf ball from the second floor hit me hard on the back of my head.

The game room on the second floor belonged to Mason, who often practiced indoor golf after finishing his homework.

Seeing me clutch my head and curl up on the floor, father and son exchanged a look as if to say, “She’s putting on an act again,” letting me lie there for half an hour.

Finally, I crawled out of the Smith Family’s door, drenched in cold sweat and went to the hospital alone for an IV drip.

After recovering from the fever, I groggily boarded a bus heading out of town. Two hours later, I arrived at Grandma’s house.

Seeing me, Grandma was overjoyed and asked nothing, focusing only on lighting the stove and cooking me a big pot of taro rice.

When Mason was little, he loved taro rice too. He’d overeat and then ask me to carry him.

Around the age of six or seven, someone in the Smith Family told him that taro was “peasant food,” and since then, he no longer allowed me to bring Grandma’s home-grown taro back.

“Ugh, ugh.”

Seeing me eat too quickly and hiccup, Grandma’s wrinkled face filled with a smile.

“Oh, silly Shanny.”

With trembling, wrinkled hands, she braided my messy hair into my favorite childhood pigtails.

That night, after years of insomnia, I slept soundly. I knew I had finally come home.

Two days later, I received a call from Quincy.

In a cold voice, he asked, “Where did you hang the silk shirt I bought overseas last year?”

Without thinking, I told him its exact location and suggested pairing it with the tie on the far left of the storage compartment.

I heard the sounds of him dressing from his end.