Post-Marriage: Still Supporting His Brother

"Get out, you bloodsucking leeches! Scram!" Clifford Reyes yelled, slamming the door shut.

Outside, Hilda's furious shrieks and George's mumbled gripes gradually faded away. I slumped against the door frame, a bone-deep chill seeping through me.

My mom wiped her tears while my dad glowered. "This marriage has to end. We'll contact a lawyer tomorrow!"

...

We hadn't even contacted a lawyer yet when George showed up again.

As my parents and I stepped out of the apartment, he lunged forward and grabbed me. His voice rose to a piercing wail that echoed through the entire complex. "Honey, I messed up. Please don't divorce me. My parents raised me; they're country folks living through hardships. I just want to give them a bit for living expenses. Can we discuss this?"

The abrupt spectacle pinned me in place. Revulsion coursed through me, making my skin crawl as I shook violently to free myself. "Let go of me and drop the act! It's revolting!"

The neighbors were startled and started poking their heads out to watch.

Emboldened by the audience, George amped up the drama. "Everyone, help me reason with my wife. I really don't want a divorce. But my parents raised me; paying them back is only right."

The neighbors' eyes widened. "Not letting her husband support his parents? What kind of wife is that? We've watched her grow up, but we never pegged her for this. Mean and ungrateful."

I never thought George would twist the facts like this. Anger got the better of me, and I was momentarily lost for words.

"He's lying. That's not how it is at all," I managed.

George pressed on. "Honey, I'm sorry. You have every reason to be mad about my downplaying my salary, but I have to support my parents. Please forgive me. I can't lose you."

His words set off the crowd. Soon people were pointing and whispering loudly. A guy shouted, "Shame on you!"

Then came someone's leftover fries and a half-empty soda can that splashed at our feet. Others joined in.

My parents tried to shield me, but they were caught in the crossfire, left smeared and disheveled.

Amid the barrage of insults, we fled back inside, utterly humiliated. But the nightmare didn't end there. The incident had been filmed and uploaded online.

The caption read: [Rural Husband Blamed by Snobbish Wife for Supporting Parents.]

The internet erupted in hatred toward me.

[How disgusting!]

[People like her deserve to be condemned.]

[When she's a mom, I hope her kids treat her the same way.]

Somehow, my phone number got leaked. Strangers called daily to hurl abuse, and private messages flooded me on every platform. I didn't dare to read them.

Even our home address got exposed. Packages arrived: dead rats, blood-smeared photos, malicious letters, and so on. We called the police, but without proof of who sent them, there was little they could do.

We became prisoners in our home. Venturing out meant stares, whispers, outright ambushes, and verbal assaults.

Meanwhile, the orchestrator of this chaos lounged in anonymity, launching livestreams and profiting off our suffering.

Watching George live, his face full of fake grievance, I clenched my fists until my knuckles whitened. Fine! If he wanted to play dirty, I'd respond in kind.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. "I've got explosive headline material here. Interested in exclusive first-hand details?"