"We have to be realistic," Abigail said coldly. "If you think fifty thousand is too little, then name your price."

At that instant, something in me snapped—I finally understood.

I lifted my head, my voice edged with bitter irony.

"So, once someone grows old and stops earning money, they're a burden? That makes it acceptable for people to slander them, to put a price tag on their life and buy it off with fifty thousand?"

I looked straight into her eyes.

"Abigail, is that what you really think of your own mother?"

"Shut up."

Like a firecracker set alight, she leapt to her feet and flung the drink in my face.

"Julian, how can you be so ungrateful?" she snapped. "I'm doing this for your sake, yet you twist it into an insult against my mom. What kind of son-in-law are you?"

"You won't sign the agreement? Fine. But don't expect a penny if this goes to court!"

Snatching the document from the table, she stormed out of the restaurant.

I watched her retreating figure until she disappeared outside.

The truth was written at that moment, clear as day.

I almost laughed, but what came out instead was the taste of despair.

Yes, my mother didn't work anymore. But that was only because she and my father had both spent over twenty years in state-owned jobs until the economic downturn forced their early retirement. Even so, their pensions never failed them.

I urged them to travel, to finally enjoy life, but they refused. Instead, they saved every cent to support me and Abigail.

She had no father, and my parents took it upon themselves to help her mother as well. Since marrying into our family, Abigail had never once known hardship. She always did as she pleased, never suffered the slightest grievance.

Even the law firm she now ran with pride had been built on the money my parents scraped together—selling their spacious home to buy a smaller one, just so she could have her start.

All of that, she conveniently forgot.

And in her heart, my mother's life wasn't even worth fifty thousand.

After twelve years of marriage, it hit me with brutal clarity: Abigail had never loved me. Because when you love someone, you love their family too. And when you despise someone... that hatred spreads as well.

When I stepped out of the restaurant, I was startled to find her car still parked nearby.

A boy in a pale blue shirt sat in the passenger seat, carefully applying lipstick on her lips. When he finished, she laughed and leaned in to kiss him.

Through the windshield, I stood frozen, watching them laugh together as if I didn't exist.

When her eyes flicked toward me, her smile vanished, but there wasn't a trace of guilt in her expression. The boy glanced curiously in my direction, and without hesitation, she started the engine and sped away.

The car tore past me, tires splashing through a puddle left by the morning rain. Dirty water sprayed across my body.

Soaked and filthy, I dragged myself home.

My daughter, Jane, came running over, but her small arms froze halfway as she saw my appearance.

"Daddy, what happened? Did you fall?"

My heart clenched painfully.

I crouched down and pulled her into my arms, holding her tiny frame as if she was the only thing keeping me standing.

Hearing her, my mom hurried out of the bathroom, leaving behind the toy she'd been playing with. She came back with a damp towel in hand and pressed it toward me.

"Didn't you go to eat with Abigail? How did you end up like this?"

My chest ached, but I forced a smile. "Tripped on the way back, that's all."

Once I had cleaned myself up, she pulled me aside and lowered her voice.

"About Abigail's mother... what exactly is she planning to do?"

The memory of Abigail's words before she left weighed on me like lead.

I struggled to find an answer.

"She... she says she's going to sue," I choked out.

"Let her," my mother replied. "If that's what she chooses, then fine—she must give justice to what happened to her mother."

Sighing, she rummaged in her pocket, and pressed a bank card into my hand.

"This is a little money your father and I saved over the years. You'll need it—the lawyers, the fees... Take it, and if things get tight, tell your parents."

Forcing a smile, she added, "Son, I should go home. Your father's waiting for me to cook."

She patted my hand and walked toward the door.

I followed her to the gate and watched the front door slam shut behind her, locking me inside. The bank card burned in my palm like a live coal, setting every nerve on edge.

I wanted a divorce.

But I couldn't say that aloud. I couldn't tell my parents that after all their years of sacrifice, in Abigail's eyes, their devotion was nothing and worthless.

And among the things she thought worthless, I was included.

That night Abigail didn't come home. I didn't sleep in the master bedroom either.

I curled up on my daughter’s small bed, holding her tightly in my arms, and lay awake through the long night.

At dawn, I got up to make breakfast. Abigail opened the door and scanned the room; when she didn't see the child, she sat down.

Tapping her fingers on the table, she said, "We need to talk."

I took the seat opposite her, my eyes catching the dull red mark at the base of her neck. She cleared her throat and, looking oddly uneasy, reached into her bag and pushed two documents across the table.

It was a divorce agreement, and the private settlement she'd handed me yesterday.

"You already saw everything yesterday," she said. "So I won't lie. His name is Dylan. I've known him for some time."

"My plan wasn't to get a divorce," she went on, softer now. "But I'm pregnant with his child, and I'm not having an abortion."

Dylan?

My hand paused over the divorce agreement. That name—Dylan—was the same one I'd heard at the police station two days ago. Remembering what happened yesterday, I suddenly understood—though it all still felt ridiculously absurd.

Abigail was pregnant with the man who caused her mother's death?

When I didn't answer, her voice became even gentler. "Julian, he's only twenty-two. For the sake of the years we shared, can you let him go?"

"If you let him go and sign the settlement, I'll give you my house and my car." She smiled, as if making a bargain. "And we've upped the settlement to one hundred thousand."

It was almost laughable. After sixteen years together, the first time she showed me tenderness was to save the life of the man who ran over her own mother.

I picked up the divorce agreement, flipped through it page by page, then handed it back to her.

She thought I’d agreed—her face lit up with relief. Quickly, she dug a pen out of her bag and pressed it into my hand.

I signed, then pushed the two copies back across the table.

“I agree with divorce. But as for a private settlement—I don’t have the right to sign that.”

It was the truth.

But in Abigail’s ears, it sounded like I was deliberately making things difficult.

Her face darkened. She leaned back in her chair, chest rising and falling sharply, then suddenly hurled the pen at me.

“Julian, I only brought up our past out of consideration. Don’t think I’m begging you. That’s your mother we’re talking about. If you don’t have the right, then who does? In the end, you just don’t want to let Dylan go. You’re malicious—and so is your entire family.”

“What did you just say?”

My fists clenched, anger rushing through me like fire.

She could insult me all she wanted, but why should I let her trample my family again and again?

Abigail slammed her palm on the table, leaned across, and hissed into my face.

"I said your whole family is vicious. Your mother deserved to be run over!"

Smack!

I struck her across the face with everything I had. The sound cracked through the room.

Stunned, Abigail's head whipped to the side. For a heartbeat she froze, then clawed toward my face.

"Julian, you bastard—how dare you hit me?!"

The commotion woke Jane. She came running on bare feet, eyes wide with panic.

"Mommy, don't hit Daddy!"

Abigail's hand stopped midair. She looked at the child, clenched her jaw, then shoved me to the floor.

"You'll regret this, Julian."

The front door slammed so hard the walls shook.

I held Jane in my arms, my teeth grinding, my chest trembling.

'Regret? No, Abigail. The one who will regret this is you.'

That night, the surveillance footage of my mother-in-law's accident shot up the trending searches.

Her brother stormed into my place with his phone in hand, his whole body quaking with fury.

"Those bastards! My sister died so horribly, and now they twist the story like this? Do they even have a shred of humanity left?"

I poured him water, then took the phone.

Unlike the footage I saw at the police station, the version circulating online is vague, carefully angled to hide the part where my mother-in-law was just tying her shoelaces. The clip slows down, and the added subtitles frame it as if she was preparing to scam someone.

If I hadn’t watched the original surveillance myself, I might have believed it too.

No wonder the comments are full of curses aimed at her.

[They say it’s not that people get bad when they grow old, but that bad people simply grow old.]

[Look at that movement—she's obviously a habitual offender!]

[Probably wanted to squeeze some money for her children before she died. What a noble mother, dying for justice!]

I should have been devastated.

But knowing Abigail was the one orchestrating this—because in her eyes, the victim wasn't her mother, but mine—killed the grief before it could rise.

Her uncle slapped his thigh in outrage, yelling at me.

"Julian, call Abigail right now. Tell her to send a lawyer's letter, sue those swines immediately!"

I couldn't bring myself to tell him that the "swine" he cursed might very well be his own niece.

Before I could lower the phone, the police station called.

"Mr. Mendez, we're following up about your mother-in-law's case. You said you'd discuss with your wife whether to press charges. Have you reached a decision?"

I wanted to tell them to ask Abigail directly.

But before I could speak, her uncle bellowed into the receiver,

"Of course we're pressing charges! Arrest him immediately! How dare he kill my sister and still smear her online?"

"Excuse me, and you are...?"

"I'm the victim's brother. Her only brother. My words are my niece's words too."

He hung up before they could say more, then grabbed my arm.

"Come with me—we're going to Abigail's firm."

At the law office, her assistant jumped nervously in front of us.

"Mr. Shaw, Mr. Mendez—you can't just barge in like this. The president is in a meeting—"

"Meeting my ass!" he snapped, shoving her aside. "Do you even know who I am? I'm her uncle, and this man is her husband. If you've got eyes, use them—or do you not want this job anymore?"

Without waiting for her reply, he shoved the office door wide open.

Inside, Abigail sat leisurely in her leather chair. And bent over her, propped on the armrest, was Dylan—feeding her cookies from his mouth to hers.

Her uncle froze for half a second. Then he lunged, yanked the boy off her, and began beating him.

"You worthless mutt! Seducing a married woman in broad daylight?"

"Ah! Abby, save me!"

The boy cried as he stumbled back, shielding his head, wailing for Abigail's help.