"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.

Uncle Archie's fist hadn't even landed on the boy's face before Abigail caught his arm.

"You—you dare stop me?" he roared.

"Do you even know what time it is right now? At such a critical moment, you're still fooling around with this kind of scandal!"

Abigail shot me a venomous glare, as if I had deliberately staged this scene to expose her.

"Uncle," she said coldly, "this is my private matter. Aren't you stretching your hand a little too far?"

"What... did you just say?"

Uncle Archie froze, stunned. He could never have imagined that his gentle, considerate niece would speak to him like this.

"Fine, fine. It's my fault. I shouldn't have interfered." He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

I was about to follow him out when Abigail's voice cut through the air.

"Julian! If it weren't for the fact that I'm related to you and therefore unable to stand in court, I would have personally represented Dylan and made sure you lost so badly you'd never recover!"

I paused, then asked the question that had been gnawing at me.

"Abigail, I really don't understand. Why do you treat me like an enemy now?"

She narrowed her eyes, leaned closer until her face was just inches from mine, and whispered, "That slap—you think I'll ever forget it? I'll carry it with me for the rest of my life."

Sighing, I nodded. There was nothing left to say.

Online public opinion only grew more frenzied.

Because of the uproar, the case was fast-tracked to trial—less than half a month later, we were in court.

I didn't hire a lawyer. I sat alone at the plaintiff's table.

From the gallery, Abigail raised her brows at me with a smug, mocking look.

When her relatives entered the courtroom, they whispered to her in confusion.

"Why is your husband sitting up there? Shouldn't you be the one leading the case?"

Abigail gave a dismissive little laugh, answering casually, "The defendant's seat is already taken by my company's lawyer. A firm can't have two of its own lawyers sitting on both the plaintiff and defendant's side."

Her relatives gaped at her in disbelief.

"You—you let one of your employees defend the man who killed your mother? Are you insane?"

She didn't even bother sparing them a glance.

"So what? A lawyer's duty is to stand for justice. Even if it's family—if they've done wrong, they must face the consequences."

Oh, she sounded so righteous.

I couldn't help but sneer silently from where I stood.

'Would she still speak so self-righteously after the trial began?' I wondered.

The judge's gavel struck down, echoing across the chamber.

“I hereby announce the opening of the trial for the Rose Avenue car accident case of August 29th. The deceased: Emilia Shaw—”

“Who are you talking about?”

A loud thud sounded behind me as Abigail shot to her feet, her face pale.