The day we graduated from university, we decided to get married. However, her family was firmly against it.

Especially her younger sister—she looked down on me from the very beginning. She made snide, passive-aggressive comments and sometimes openly mocked me, calling me a "gold-digger," saying I was just a nobody chasing after her sister’s money.

Only Freya and I knew the truth.

What we had started as a real friendship—pure and simple. It wasn’t until much later that it turned into love. By the time I found out she came from a wealthy family, my feelings for her had already been genuine.

Still, that time in my life was tough.

I felt lost, like I didn’t belong. To show that I mattered, Freya went against her family’s wishes. She secretly took her household registration papers and came with me to the registry office. We signed the marriage certificate on our own.

When her parents found out, they were furious. Their disapproval didn’t ease until Freya showed them her pregnancy test results. Only then did they begrudgingly accept our marriage.

But acceptance didn’t mean respect.

Her family continued to treat me with contempt. No matter how warm or polite I tried to be, all I got in return was sarcasm and cold shoulders. Their mockery stripped me of any dignity I had left.

In the early years, Freya would often comfort me. She’d tell me to be patient, that they’d come around. But as time passed—especially after our child was born—things began to change.

She grew distant, colder. It felt like the more I tried to hold on, the faster she pulled away. Worse, she started developing some vague, uncomfortable closeness with her assistant—one that she never clearly defined but never denied, either.

I tried to bring us back together. I became more attentive, more loving, trying to remind her of what we once had.

But instead of bringing us closer, it just pushed her further away.

She started criticizing everything about me—my job, my habits, my worth. She’d even compare me to her assistant, pointing out everything he did better.

And then… my mother passed away in the hospital.

In that moment, I finally understood that whatever innocent love Freya and I once shared had long since faded. The bond we once had was gone.

Our relationship had turned toxic. There was no point in pretending anymore.

That night, like most nights, I stayed up past 11 p.m. I had gotten used to it.

I didn’t go back to our bedroom. I slept in a separate room now. Because every time I walked into that bedroom, every time I saw that bed, all I could think about… was the day I came home and found her there—with him.

The next morning, almost as if on cue, we opened our doors at the exact same time.

She looked at me, startled. "Why didn’t you come back to the bedroom last night?"

I met her eyes calmly. "Do you really think there’s a point anymore?"

Freya’s face darkened. "You’re so petty sometimes. You never try to understand me."

I nodded slowly. "You’re right. I didn’t understand you... When my mother was in the hospital, asking to see you and her grandson one last time."

"When your assistant was lying in our bed. I’ve been trying—really trying—to figure out how to forgive you. But I just can’t."

I walked away.

When I reached the front door, I paused. "Should I find a lawyer to draft the divorce papers, or do you want to handle that?"

Freya didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at me like a stranger. "Whatever. Do what you want."

That weekend, I went to a law office and had a divorce agreement drafted.

When it was done, I headed back to what was still technically our home. I held my key to the door, but hesitated. Maybe… maybe I didn’t want to walk back into that place ever again.

I pulled the key back out.

Instead, I went to my home—my real one. The one I grew up in. Ever since Mom passed, I was the only one left here.

I opened an old drawer and found a photo from a few years ago. It was one of the three of us—me, my mom and my son. In the picture, Mom was smiling so gently, joy radiating from her face. But my son… he looked grumpy, clearly not happy to be taking that photo.

When he was born, my mother was so hapy. That child was her everything.

However, Freya’s family—they were overbearing from day one. Not long after our son was born, they told my mom straight to her face: That my son won’t have a future if he grows up in your house. He’s going to take their family name—Weiss.

When our son was born, Freya's family took over his upbringing entirely.

My mother, his grandmother, was only allowed to see him once a month. At first, she was disappointed, but each visit brought her immense joy. However, as our son grew older, he began to adopt the elitist attitudes of Freya's family, looking down on his own grandmother.

I was furious when he disrespected her. In a moment of anger, I slapped him.

Instead of understanding, Freya's entire family turned against me, accusing me of being abusive. Even Freya said, "You're overreacting. It's normal for him to feel distant from someone he didn't grow up with."

Our son had been molded by the Weiss Family's values—materialistic and dismissive of those less fortunate. He even began to distance himself from me.

My mother had once been proud that I married someone as accomplished as Freya. But after our son was born, she seemed to lose her joy. Perhaps the constant sorrow contributed to her early passing.

Late one night, around 1 a.m., Freya called me. "Where are you? Why didn't you come home?"

I calmly replied, "I met with a lawyer today to draft our divorce agreement."

After a pause, she asked, "Can we not go through with the divorce?"

Her words pierced me. I thought I had moved on, but years of shared history aren't easily erased. Emotions are complex.

I didn't respond and hung up.

A few days later, Freya called again, inviting me to her mother's birthday celebration. Initially, I didn't want to go. But looking at the divorce papers, I decided to attend, seeking closure.

Then, I finally stepped into the Weiss Family estate again.

Every time I used to come to this villa, I’d feel a heavy weight in my chest—as if I didn’t belong, as if I was constantly being judged.

But not this time.

Maybe it was the divorce papers in my hand that changed everything. For the first time in years, I felt free. Nothing could tie me down now.

I arrived quite late.

The Weiss estate was already bustling with guests. Laughter and chatter filled the air as everyone celebrated my mother-in-law, Anne Weiss’s birthday. People were offering gifts and warm wishes. The younger ones were behaving well, expecting to get some sort of reward.

When I stepped inside, the room fell into a brief hush. The crowd instinctively parted, clearing a path.

I walked straight toward Anne, holding the divorce agreement in my hand.

Freya and her sister stood just behind her, flanking her like loyal sentinels. Her first love—yes, he was there too—hovered nearby, comfortably in the picture, as though they were the real family now.

Anne’s expression soured the moment she saw me.

Her voice was as sharp and dismissive as ever. “You’re late. Do you even acknowledge me as your mother-in-law anymore?”

Freya, surprisingly, stepped in to smooth things over, offering a cheerful excuse. “Mom, don’t be upset. I’m sure Jonas was just out trying to find the perfect gift for you. He wanted to surprise you, that’s all.”

Anne’s face softened—slightly. She turned to me coldly and asked, “So? What did you bring?”

She had never once treated me with kindness or respect. I used to hope I could win her over, that one day she might finally accept me. But I didn’t care about that anymore.

I smiled calmly and handed her the envelope.

“This,” I said, “might just be the best gift I’ve ever given you.”

The moment Anne laid eyes on the bold letters 'DIVORCE AGREEMENT', her expression changed instantly.

No one had seen it coming.

A stunned silence fell over the room. Guests, relatives—everyone froze, their eyes bouncing between me and Freya, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Freya's face turned ghostly pale.