Five Years a Fake Wife My Marriage Was a Lie

Today I was done covering for anyone.

After I got home, I started packing.

Jude was rarely here, but his things still sat in this apartment—everything he liked.

The baseball bat, the snowboard, the fishing rod, all lined up neatly, not a speck of dust on them.

Yet I'd lived here alone for five years, and my own things couldn't even fill a single twenty-inch suitcase.

I remembered the first time he pulled me through the door of this newlywed home, and what he'd said:

"From now on, this is your home. I'll fill it with everything you love, so you'll always feel safe here."

But now he'd given all his tenderness, all his favor, to someone else, and all I had left was this cold room.

Once the last piece of clothing was folded, I sat down at the computer.

And I started going through every expense of these five years, one line at a time.

The mortgage at seventy-eight hundred a month, my mother-in-law's chronic illness, hospital bills, surgery fees, plus utilities and property management, household costs—it came to well over a million.

Bill after bill, dense and unbroken, filled the whole screen.

But over all these years, the money Jude had sent home didn't add up to five hundred thousand.

When I went to him upset, asking for money, he set his face hard every time and said I suffocated him, then turned and buried himself in Diana's soft little world, leaving every mess for me.

Later, to ease the pressure, I took shifts at the convenience store at lunch and in the evenings whenever I had the time.

I burned through all my youth and all my savings, just to keep this household standing.

And while I was doing that, he booked out an entire hotel to celebrate Diana's birthday.

The thought of it sent a sharp stab through my chest.

I took a deep breath and screenshotted everything—the bills, the payment records, the hospital-care proof.

Just as I finished, the door lock rattled.

It was Jude.

Thanks to my mother-in-law, I'd somehow seen him twice in a single year.

His gaze swept over the packed suitcase, and there wasn't a trace of panic in his eyes.

"Are you done throwing your fit?"

"Mom's lying in a hospital bed and you just walk out—was this all to force me back here to watch you run away from home?"

I looked at him, and suddenly I was so tired I didn't even have the strength to argue.

"Think whatever you want."

He lunged forward and grabbed my wrist. "Come on. You're coming to the hospital with me to apologize to Mom."

He yanked me so hard I stumbled and nearly fell.

But it was as though he couldn't even see it.

I wrenched my hand free, and my wrist cracked against the corner of the desk, aching and numb.

"Why should I apologize?"

"You're so fond of Diana—why don't you have her go look after your mother!"

I nearly screamed it, my voice shaking.

Jude froze at the shout. "You're the Harding daughter-in-law. You won't do it, so you'd shove it onto someone else?"

"If you had one ounce of sense and consideration, if you learned to be gentle like Diana, we wouldn't be down to seeing each other once a year!"

I turned and looked at him, calm.

"That won't be necessary. From now on, let's not even have that one time."

He pinched his brow, his face full of anger.

"What's that supposed to mean? I never divorced you. The place of Mrs. Harding has always been yours. What in the world are you still not satisfied with?"

I let out a cold laugh and looked at him.

"It doesn't mean anything. I just want it to end."

"Let's get divorced."

Something I couldn't read flickered through Jude's eyes.

He gave a soft laugh. "Divorce?"

"You've spent these five years at home full-time—no job, no income. From start to finish, I'm the one who supported you. Leave me, and you'll struggle just to get by. What exactly do you think you'd divorce me with? Don't humiliate yourself."