She Sold the House, I Forced Her to Divorce

I pushed open the door and saw Mom crouching in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor.

The water wrung from the rag was murky with dish soap foam, and her fingers were red from the cold. The cuffs of her sleeves still had stains from this morning's cooking.

"Mom, stop scrubbing. Is the fridge fixed yet?" I asked hoarsely.

She looked up and forced a smile. "Your dad said to hold on a little longer. Once business picks up, we'll get a new one."

I stared at her cracked fingernails, my heart clenching as if someone had it in a vise.

Last year, when Dad's rheumatism acted up, she grated fresh ginger and turmeric by hand for his poultice and ripped half her fingernail off doing it.

Yet Dad only said, "You women are just too delicate."

And Mom actually started to wonder if maybe she really was too delicate, like he said.

"How did the sales go?" Mom stood up, bracing her lower back. "Your dad coughed half the night. I need to scrape together the money f—"

"Why don't you take a look at this first?" I interrupted her and handed over my phone.

She took it with a confused look and began scrolling.

Carla's Instagram posts unfolded before her eyes one by one—Dad leaning against the car door while smiling, Dad wearing an apron and cooking seafood.

The one that stung the most was the latest.

"My boyfriend said the bracelet was too plain for my new dress."

The photo showed a Van Cleef and Arpels counter, with a salesperson packaging a matching necklace.

"I've already checked the prices. The cheapest one costs 11 thousand dollars," I said coldly from the side.

"T-This is?" Mom's fingers were trembling.

"This is the client who came to see the apartment today. And guess what? The person buying it for her is Dad," I explained to Mom while watching her reaction closely.

"Dad complains about being broke to us every day. But in reality, he's been spending all his money on someone else. He said he was meeting with a client yesterday, but he was actually picking out a necklace for her."

Mom staggered and grabbed the kitchen counter, nearly falling to the ground.

"No, that's impossible," she said, her lips quivering. "Your dad said money was tight lately. He even held back on my medical insurance."

"Tight?" I pulled up screenshots of the bank statements and pointed at the transfer records he made to Carla. "In three months, he wired her 800 thousand dollars, with the memos all reading 'wellness investment.'"

Mom suddenly rushed into the bedroom and came back with a tin box stuffed with yellowed receipts for Dad's rheumatism therapy fees and health supplements.

On each one, her elegant handwriting noted, "Norman's health is the top priority."

In hindsight, it was the cruelest irony.

At the very bottom was a copy of Grandma's will.

"I bequeath the apartment to my daughter, Irma Bond, as a place for her to settle and call home."

Mom looked at the receipts, then at the will, and tears suddenly streamed down her face.

"H-How could he do this to me? It's bad enough he stole my money and my life, but now he wants to take away my last safety net?" She choked on her sobs as she stroked the will. "Before your grandma passed, she kept telling me this apartment is my safe haven."

I picked up one of the receipts.

Last week, Dad had taken five thousand dollars under the pretense of buying health supplements. Around the same time, Carla posted a photo of her new designer bag on Instagram.

"Mom, look closely." I held up my phone next to the receipt. "His so-called supplements are hanging on someone else's arm."

She suddenly grabbed my phone and started scrolling frantically.

Every one of Carla's bragging photos—Dad in an apron cooking seafood, Dad picking out jewelry, Dad with his arm around her test-driving a new car—felt like a slap in the face.

"When I was in the hospital for surgery last year…" Mom stared at Dad, who was smiling dotingly in the photos. "He said the hospital had bad reception. Turns out he was busy playing chef for someone else."

Tears splashed onto the screen.

Suddenly, she laughed.

"No wonder he always complained about my cooking." She grabbed the stack of receipts and hurled them against the wall. "How dare he use the money I nearly killed myself for to support some little slut?"

As the papers fluttered through the air, she slowly rose to her full height.

"Jody, I'm coming with you to sign that contract next week," she said, wiping away her tears.