On the fourteenth anniversary of our marriage, my husband didn't come home all night.

I received flirtatious photos sent by his new girlfriend.

I calmly asked him for a divorce, but he threatened me with guardianship of the children.

His girlfriend cried, "Steve only helped me because he pitied me. Don't misunderstand him."

My heart was broken. Determined to leave, I was met with Steve Sanchez's sarcasm.

"You're homeless. How can you live without my support?" he said.

I didn't see him again until a few days later.

[Let's get a divorce.]

I messaged Steve, but he ignored me.

Even so, I had made up my mind and started preparing for the divorce.

A week later, Steve came back from a business trip.

He reeked of alcohol and had a strong mix of perfume on him.

Our children were already asleep while I was in the living room, browsing job sites.

I looked up and spoke indifferently. "You're back. Have you thought about the divorce?"

He laughed as if hearing a joke. "Are you kidding me? You must be crazy to divorce me."

I calmly replied, "I'm not joking, and I'm perfectly sane."

Steve took off his coat and pulled off his tie, smirking mockingly. "A homeless person like you can't survive without me. You've been a full-time housewife for seven years with no income. Even if we divorce, you won't get guardianship of the kids. Are you prepared to live in the street and scavenge for food?"

His words were insulting, shattering the little strength I had left.

But my resolve was firm.

I replied, "Whether I sleep under a bridge or scavenge for food, it's none of your business. I won't fight for guardianship. I just want a peaceful divorce. After that, whether I live or die has nothing to do with you."

Drunk people were easily angered.

Steve pulled out his belt and, in a sudden rage, charged at me.

I never expected him to resort to violence. He had never shown this side before.

Still, I gritted my teeth and stared at him.

He swung the belt but missed, perhaps because he was too drunk.

The belt grazed my clothes and hit the leg of the sofa.

Then he collapsed on the sofa, falling into a drunken sleep.

The air conditioner was set low, and he didn't have a shirt on since he had taken it off earlier.

I hesitated, thinking that while a divorce was imminent, I didn't want him to freeze to death.

Just then, my phone rang.

It was another text from that same number.

It was a photo showing a scantily dressed lady. Her raised left wrist was adorned with a flashy Vacheron Constantin watch.

There was another hand of a man, who was wearing a dark grey shirt.

His identity was plain to see.

That shirt was now discarded at the living room entrance.

The shirt's owner had just tried to hit me with a belt and told me I would scavenge for food without him.

I stood up, shut down my laptop, and went to my room.

Steve deserved to freeze.

The next morning, I took the twins to school.

Steve was no longer in the living room.

Wherever he went, I didn't care anymore.

It only disgusted me.

The twins, now six years old, had just started first grade.

Sitting in the family driver's car, my daughter suddenly asked, "Mom, you haven't smiled in a long time. Are you unhappy?"

I forced a smile, "No, sweetheart, don't worry."

At the school gate, my son ran ahead while my daughter stopped and looked at me worriedly. "Mom, cartoons say if you're unhappy, you should stay away from what makes you sad."

Her words made me sad, and I mumbled, "I know, sweetheart. Now go to school."

My daughter's words must have been relayed to Steve by the driver.

A few days later, Steve forbade me from taking the twins to school, claiming I needed to calm down due to my poor mental state.

The twins were sent to the house of Steve's parents and looked after by the housekeeper.

I was practically under house arrest, unable to go anywhere.

I didn't protest or make a scene, just packing my belongings.

I told Steve, "If you don't agree to the divorce, I'll file for it."

Steve, feeling his authority challenged, smashed a priceless vase and roared at me, "Go ahead! Let's see whose side the judge takes!"

The Sanchez family was wealthy and influential, while I was all alone.

The outcome seemed obvious.

"No matter how rich you are, the judge still follows the law," I said.

Steve clenched his fists, veins bulging, "Nancy Foster, don't push your luck. Or there will be consequences."

I stood up, still calm. "Fine, either you agree to the divorce, or you kill me."

It was said that when one discovered a cockroach, there was actually a whole nest of them.

I believed the same principle applied to cheating.

When I first received the photos from Andrea Bailey as a blatant provocation, I guessed that this was not the first time Steve had betrayed me.

So later, when I received similar photos from two other women, I was unfazed.

Steve was very generous with women.

He gave them expensive watches from brands like Vacheron Constantin, Longines, and Cartier.

These women flaunted their conquests to me, as if to tell me that they had successfully seduced Steve.

In fact, Steve was not suddenly so bad to me.

I noticed a subtle change about a year ago.

At that time, I was 28, and besides doing housework every day, I had to take care of two five-year-old children, which was utterly exhausting.

Despite being wealthy, Steve was unwilling to hire a maid.

He said that since I was at home all day with nothing to do and not short of money, it was only right for me to do some housework.

I was so exhausted that I developed lumbar muscle strain. Several times when Steve came home and tried to touch me, I refused on the grounds of back pain.

After a few rejections, Steve stopped making any advances.

Perhaps it was because of this that he began to neglect me.

I didn't know when he hooked up with Andrea and began frequenting the kind of places he once called dirty.

Then he seemed to have changed completely and always found me displeasing, picking fights with me.

For example, he said the soup I made was so sour it could break teeth and that even pigs wouldn't drink it.

But he had been drinking that soup for many years.

He also said I was incredibly stupid and couldn't even mop the floor properly, causing him to slip and fall heavily at home.

But he fell because he was drunk and unsteady on his feet.

Over the years, I had always been grateful to him for accompanying me through my dark and gloomy teenage years and for taking care of things when my parents died in a car accident.

I was thankful for the comfortable life he gave me and for his respect and care in the past.

So, every time he picked on me and argued with me, I would give in to him.

I thought that since he bore the burden of the company, he was already very stressed.

And since I wanted to be a virtuous wife, I should be more tolerant and understanding of him.

So, every time he finished scolding me, I would try to talk him down gently like a humble servant.

After he had locked me out for several days, he came back once.

That night, I asked him, "Have you thought it over? About the divorce."

I didn't know if he had been angered outside or if those ladies hadn't served him well, but Steve lost his temper and shouted, "Shut up, you fool!"

By now, I had become immune to such insults and wouldn't panic like the first time I heard them.

I remember when he first called me a dumbass, I cried all night long.

I was devastated.

But after hearing it often enough, I became numb.

He didn't stop there and continued to insult me, "You stupid, homeless swine, what makes you think you can challenge me?"

In fact, I wasn't very fat. I was 5.4 feet tall and weighed 108 pounds.

Although I was eight pounds heavier than in college, I wasn't fat.

But he could always find a reason to insult me.

I quietly looked at him, my gaze falling on his suit pants pocket.

A piece of black lace, thin and semi-transparent, stuck out, attached to a slender string.

I knew what it was.

It must have been stuffed inside by some scheming woman.

I didn't try to placate Steve, nor did I have the energy to argue with him.

I just smiled and said, "Stevie, we've been together for so many years and truly loved each other. There's no need for things to turn out like this."

Steve froze at my words.

He remembered that nickname.

I used to address him like that when we were deeply in love.

Steve and I were high school classmates.

Before we chose our respective academic tracks, we were in the same class.

The affection we had for each other during our school days was simple and vague.

I had feelings for him but didn't dare to show them.

He was good-looking and excelled academically. On the basketball court, his effortless jumps and shots always earned him cheers and applause.

For the entire first year of high school, I watched him silently.

In the first semester of the second year, we became desk mates. But not long after, we had to choose our academic paths.

I excelled in liberal arts, so I naturally chose that track, while he, being a top student in science, was bound for the science class.

This made me even more reluctant to express my feelings.

On the day we separated, a girl from the science class approached him boldly and said, "Steve, you're finally going to be with me."

She was Steve's middle school classmate, Susan Green.

Jealous, I bit my lip and tried to leave through the back door, but Steve blocked me at the stairway.

Standing in front of me, he gently asked, "Nancy, are you upset?"

The atmosphere was extremely ambiguous.

I turned my face away to avoid looking at him, but he seemed to confirm something and sighed in relief, saying, "If I don't confront you, would you plan on having a secret crush on me forever?"

Blushing, I called him a narcissist.

While the stairway was empty, he kissed me on the cheek and boldly said, "Nancy, let's start a relationship. I am yours, forever."

The romantic words of the young boy were passionate.

Blushing, I began a secret relationship with him.

He didn't like it when I called him by his full name, so I had to coax him. "Stevie, don't be mad."

From then on, the nickname became a magical switch.

Whenever I said it, Steve would enter a mode of complete submission.

He was a perfect boyfriend.

After graduating from college, I never called him that again.

After all, we got married right after graduation, and the term of endearment changed to 'honey'.

Now hearing the nickname again, Steve froze in place.

I thought he would agree to the divorce and set me free for the sake of our past feelings.

But he suddenly glared at me and said fiercely, "Nancy, this is disgusting. Acting pure at your age, do you think you're still a young girl?"

I lowered my head in despair, no longer wanting to discuss it.

I realized that I would have to go to court to get a divorce.

That night, Steve didn't leave the house or go to another woman's place.

He didn't come to my room either. Instead, he slept in the guest room.

The next day before leaving, he locked me in the house again.

I contacted a locksmith and left the house.

I took all the jewelry and designer bags Steve had given me over the years and sold them at the flea market.

I knew I wouldn't get any of his assets and had no means to demand money from him.

In his mind, I was just a housewife who did nothing all day and never earned a cent.

But according to the law, the jewelry he gave me was my personal property.

I sold all the jewelry, accessories, and bags for over three million dollars.

To Steve, three million was just the price of a watch he might casually give to Andrea, but it was likely my only financial security for the rest of my life.

I didn't dare to keep the money in my bank account, and with no parents to rely on, I contacted my only friend, Carol Bennett.

Carol was on a business trip. When she heard that I was finally getting a divorce, she joyfully said, "Oh my God, I was just wondering how to tell you about that scumbag's infidelity. I'm so glad you're getting out of this hell. Wait for me to come back and celebrate it with you."