Husband Begs for One Last Night Before the Divorce — 5 a.m… I…

I woke up in the middle of the night, my head pounding like someone had crushed it, my throat parched and burning, my limbs limp but ice-cold. My nightgown was twisted beneath me, my skirt hanging off the edge of the bed, and the wine glass had spilled on the floor, a red stain spreading like blood. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, I saw a familiar face—one that no longer felt safe.

Xuân Lâm, my ex-husband, was sitting shirtless against the bed frame, staring at me. Calmly, he said, “You’re awake?” Then added, “We used to be married. What’s there to be shy about?”
I forced myself to sit up, feeling something wet between my legs that chilled me to the bone. I couldn’t remember exactly when I had passed out—just that I had stopped by our old apartment that evening to return some documents.

He offered me wine, saying we should toast to our new lives. I refused. But after persistent begging—“Just one last glass, for old times’ sake”—I gave in. Just one sip. After that, I lost control of my own body.
We had been divorced for over a year.
I had custody of our daughter. He never paid child support, never even visited. I worked two jobs to support her: teaching English in the morning, bookkeeping for a convenience store at night. I didn’t complain—I just wanted peace.
I never expected the last thing I’d lose was my own peace.

Lâm put his shirt back on and walked past me like a man finishing something completely ordinary.
“Didn’t you used to like this too?” he mocked. “Come on, it’s not that serious. You always make a big deal out of everything.”
I wanted to scream, but my throat was blocked. My hands trembled as I reached for my bag, searching for my phone—but the battery was dead.
This apartment, where I had lived for three years—cooked, cleaned, loved—now felt foreign, haunted.
I stood up, legs unsteady, clutching my skirt. He was still casually pouring himself another glass of wine, as if nothing had happened.

I looked him in the eye for the first time in a year.
“You drugged me, didn’t you?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
He just shrugged.
“You knew, but you still drank. So who forced who?”

I walked out without looking back. Under the yellow hallway lights, I pressed the elevator button like I was sleepwalking.
When the steel door closed, the tears finally fell—but only one stream, then silence.
I told no one.
I didn’t go to the police.
I didn’t go to the hospital.

I checked into a boarding house, turned on the shower, and stood under the freezing water until my lips turned purple. The cold woke me up, but it didn’t cleanse me.
I could still hear his voice whispering in my ear: We used to be married, remember?

The next day, I didn’t go to work.
I locked myself in the room and watched my daughter sleep.
She’s only three years old.

I asked myself:
If one day, she ends up in the same situation as me, will she know how to fight back?
Will anyone believe her?

I want to forget.
But every time I look in the mirror, I see a foolish, fragile woman who once believed in the kindness of a man she used to call husband.

By the afternoon, I received a message from him.
“If you tell anyone, you won’t be the one people pity. They’ll laugh at you, not arrest me. Think carefully.”

Right then, I knew silence was no longer an option. I opened my laptop and checked the mini camera I once bought to install in my child’s room when I had to be away. Part instinct, part fear that he might one day come back for custody.
I couldn’t clearly recall whether I had the camera in my bag yesterday, but I decided to try. My hands shook as I inserted the memory card.

The first image appeared: me collapsing onto the table after taking a sip of wine. My face turning pale, fading out slowly. Then a man’s hand pulling me toward the bed. His voice echoed:
“If you won’t drink, how could you handle me? I love you, so you have to accept it.”

I hit pause. I couldn’t keep watching.
I sat still for nearly an hour, staring into nothingness. Then, I pulled the memory card out, placed it into a USB stick silently.

That night, I sent a request for a temporary leave to the English center. The stated reason: personal family matters.
I packed the camera, the USB, and a printed preliminary complaint form I found online. I told no one, and I didn’t cry.

---

Two days later, I was called to the local police station.
Lâm was there too. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves perfectly ironed, standing there confidently like a husband wrongfully accused.
“She’s my ex-wife,” he said.
“I didn’t force anyone. We used to sleep together. Who can tell the difference now?”

I looked straight into his eyes, unflinching.
“Being your ex-wife doesn’t mean my body is your property,” I said evenly.

The young officer flipped through the evidence. He stopped at the audio recording.
“I drugged her because I knew she wouldn’t agree. But we were married once.”

The room fell silent. I sat still, hands clasped, eyes steady.
A middle-aged female officer sitting behind the panel sighed quietly.

She flipped through the documents and asked,
“Are you determined to pursue this to the end?”
I nodded.

When I stepped out of the station, a light rain had started. I didn’t use my umbrella.
I walked down a narrow alley and stopped by a familiar print shop near home. I printed another form—this time, a request for medical evaluation and toxicology screening, even if time had passed.

“Is it too late?” I asked the employee.
He paused, then said,
“If you’re determined, it’s never too late.”

That night, I placed the camera back on the table and dried it carefully.
My daughter was coloring in a corner. I sat across from her, staring at the drawing she made.
A mother and a little girl standing in the rain.

“No umbrella—are you drawing mommy with someone?” I asked.
She laughed, “No, it’s mommy and me in the rain. You walk faster when it rains.”

I smiled faintly, but my chest tightened.
In the small boarding room, yellow light flickered on the wall.
On the old wooden table, the USB sat neatly beside a half-finished cup of coffee.

I stared at it in silence. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to.

---

At dawn, my mother-in-law stood in the living room, holding the property deed, face expressionless.

She didn’t say much—just pointed to a stack of papers and said flatly, like stating vegetable prices:
“Sign here. I’ll temporarily hold the house under my name to handle inheritance paperwork for Bình.”

I froze.
This was the house my birth parents bought for me before the wedding. The documents were entirely in my name.
But in this household, my voice had always been the smallest.

I glanced at my husband—he stayed silent, didn’t even look up.
Just reached for his tea, not a word of support.
“I need to call my parents first,” I said.

“You need your birth family’s permission in your husband’s home?”
My mother-in-law snapped, then turned away like it was already settled.

I didn’t sign, but from that day on, the air in the house tightened like a noose.
I cooked—she said it was too salty.
I did laundry—she said I made too much noise.
Even when I worked late shifts, she sighed,
“What kind of woman doesn’t know how to care for her home?”

One night, I came home late in the rain.
Opened the door to find her chatting with the neighbor.
“If we hadn’t stepped in to put the house under our name, who knows when she might secretly sell it.
Women nowadays are scary.”

She said it right in front of me—and I had no words to argue.
I went to my room, closed the door.
My heart pounded, but no tears would fall.

The feeling of being pushed out of a house that bore my name—there were no words to describe it.
My husband remained silent, unmoving like a stone.
He never hit me.

But his silence sliced me day by day, a thousand invisible cuts.

---

Three days later, I received a photocopied document: a power of attorney.
There was an anonymous note written in ballpoint pen:
“If you didn’t sign willingly, you have the right to void it. But find proof.”

I froze. I had never signed anything like that—
But the handwriting, the signature—they were mine. Too perfect.

I suddenly remembered one night when I had a fever.
My mother-in-law brought in medicine and said there were insurance forms that needed urgent signatures for Bình’s company.
I signed without reading.

So that’s what it was.

I started digging through everything.
In a drawer, I found copies of my ID, a photo of the marriage certificate.
All stored in a small envelope.

There was a land title recorded. My hands trembled.
On another night, my mother-in-law invited some friends over for dinner. I still had to cook and set the table like a shadow. She sat at the table laughing, saying, “My daughter-in-law is very capable. Thanks to her being obedient, I was able to help Binh get a house to marry his wife. And she doesn’t need much.
They’re living here together now, and later I’ll give them a share.”
I stood in the kitchen, holding a knife in silence. This kitchen used to be my joy when I first became a wife, but now it was just a prison for my silent endurance.

I installed a small camera into a bookcase in the study— the room my mother-in-law often entered when I wasn’t home. I didn’t install it in hopes of changing the situation, but just to keep a record—
In case one day I’d need to prove I wasn’t crazy.

That day, my husband came home early and saw me staring at my laptop. He asked, “Why so focused? What are you, a security guard now watching company CCTV?”
He gave a dry chuckle and walked into the bathroom.
It sounded like a joke, but it cut deep.

The next night, I heard whispers in the living room. It was my husband and mother-in-law.
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the voices leaking through the cracked door made me freeze.
“She knows now. You should be careful,” she said.
“She won’t do anything. She’s just bluffing,” my husband replied, casually.
“When women become too independent, they tend to rebel. You have to keep her in check.”

I stood in the darkness, not angry.
Just thinking, “So I was never someone to be cherished—only someone to be controlled.”

The next morning, I printed out all the camera footage and put it in an envelope.
I didn’t send it, didn’t threaten anyone. I just kept it in a drawer as a reminder—
That I was no longer blind.

A week later, I took three days off work and went to my parents’ house.
My mother asked, “Is something wrong, dear?”
I gave a faint smile and said, “I just wanted to come home for a bit.”

That afternoon, my mother made sour fish soup with snakehead fish.
I took one bite, looked down at my bowl, and didn’t even realize when the tears started falling.
No one said a word.
My father quietly placed more fish in my bowl.

I had never felt so small.

That evening, I sat alone on the balcony, holding the envelope under the dim streetlight that filtered through the curtains.
I wasn’t planning on a lawsuit.
I just wanted to know if I was still walking the right path.

I texted my husband.
He used to say, “We’re husband and wife; we have to trust each other.”
Now I understand—no document can ever prove trust.

He saw the message but didn’t reply.

I sighed, put the phone away, and walked back inside.
In the living room, our wedding photo was still hanging.

I walked over and took it down.
Not out of anger, not in a hurry—
Just because it was time.

She sat in front of a small wooden table, with the land documents in front of her, and a cup of cold tea beside it.
Outside, yellow light filtered through the thin curtains, swaying in the breeze.
In that room, silence was the clearest answer.

“Do you think a decent woman would be accused of stealing someone else’s husband?”
The stern voice of an older woman echoed clearly in the hospital waiting room.

I froze, my heart pounding like a drum.
Not because of the question—
But because my husband’s eyes were fixed on the floor, silent, not denying a thing.
His mother stood in front of me, her face expressionless, gripping a fruit basket with no intention of handing it to me.
I had just undergone a laparoscopic surgery and was still in pain.

“You go explain to the world, I don’t have the energy,” she said coldly.

I wanted to speak, to scream that I had never stolen anyone’s husband—
That I came to him after his divorce—
That I had turned him down so many times because I feared the gossip.
But my mouth went dry.
My throat closed up as if something blocked the words.
And still, my husband stood there in silence.

The days after that, I lived like a ghost in my own home.
Everyone looked at me like a freeloader.
My husband’s sister would throw jabs:
“Why are you so timid? Anyone says anything and you shut up like a clam. Afraid of being exposed?”
“Everyone has a past, but at least know how to hide it.”

I stayed silent.
I was tired.
But I began to record things.
I taped a small recorder to the bottom of the sofa—not for revenge,
But to preserve the truth for myself.

I started writing a journal every night, saving each entry in a folder I titled:
“Things I Wasn’t Allowed to Say.”

One file was a recording of my mother-in-law telling me not to get pregnant—
“This house doesn’t want a grandchild with unclear origins.”
Another captured my sister-in-law mocking me on the phone—
Calling me someone’s discarded trash.

My husband never once defended me.
His silence chilled me every time we lay in the same bed.
Sometimes, I wondered if he had ever truly loved me.

One day I came home late from a meeting, soaked from the rain.
My mother-in-law slammed the door in my face before I could enter.

“No one in this house welcomes a woman who wanders at night,” she snapped.

I stood outside, rain trickling down my face—
Not knowing what was rain and what were tears.

I decided to speak up.

That night, I waited until everyone had finished dinner, then cleared the table like usual.
I carefully placed each bowl and chopstick into the sink, washing them in cold water,
My hands trembling from the chill—
And from the decision I was about to make.

I returned to the living room and looked straight at my mother-in-law.
“I’d like to say a few words. Not to argue—just to make things clear.”

All eyes turned to me.
I paused, then played an audio recording from my phone.

“You think we need someone like you in this house?”
“Don’t even think about giving birth. Not knowing who the father is—how shameful.”

The sound echoed from the phone speaker.
The room froze.
My mother-in-law’s face went pale.
My sister-in-law jumped to her feet.

I didn’t stop.

“I know I’ve been silent, but not because I was wrong.
I stayed quiet because I believed every family needs time.
But today, I no longer want to live like I have to watch every breath I take.”

I turned to my husband.

“You knew everything, but you never defended me.
I don’t need anyone to protect me—
I just needed someone who wouldn’t be complicit in the silence.”

My husband kept his head down, not saying a word.

That night, I packed my things.
I didn’t say I was leaving. I didn’t say I’d come back.

I just took what belonged to me:
The old coat my mother bought me,
A scratched suitcase from high school,
A notebook stained yellow from rain.

I left everything we once shared—
Because I no longer needed to keep anything that wasn’t real.

At the door, my mother-in-law was still standing there.
She said quietly,
“You think this is something to be proud of?”

I replied,
“No, it’s not.”
“But it’s the truth.”

I didn’t say goodbye.
I didn’t need a farewell.

I stepped down each stair like shedding layers of weight off my shoulders.

I went back to my parents’ home.
My mother didn’t ask anything.

She simply made a hot bowl of noodles and placed it on the table.

“Eat,” she said.
“Then cry.”

I sat still, my eyes stinging, but my throat was dry. I didn’t cry—I just sighed and pulled a USB drive from my handbag. It contained backups of all the recordings and diary entries. I didn’t send them to anyone, but I chose to keep the truth, even if it meant being hated, even if it meant being mocked. Because I knew that if I stayed silent, I would be helping them lie—forever.

A cold cup of coffee sat on the old wooden table. Rain still poured outside the window. On my laptop screen, an unsent email remained open, its subject line simply: “The truth I’ve hidden for two years.”

As soon as I walked in the door, my mother-in-law was already standing in the middle of the living room, holding a photocopy of the divorce papers. She raised it up, her voice icy.

“You want to make a fool of our entire family? How dare you send this to Phong while he’s in a meeting?”

I stood still.
Phong didn’t say anything—just like always.
He stood behind his mother, head slightly lowered, neither denying nor defending me.
Like a damp brick wall.

I looked down at my feet—my worn-out sandals crooked and misshapen, just like this marriage.

I had given Phong the divorce papers three days earlier, after many sleepless nights.
Not out of spite. Not to make a point.
But because I needed a way out.
A chance to stand tall and face the family I had once thought would support me.

My mother-in-law threw the paper onto the table, leaned in close to my face, and sneered:
“You have nothing. Where do you think you’ll go after divorce? This house isn’t a place you can come and go as you please.”

I stayed silent.

Once, I had feared those words. I had hesitated.
But now I realized—she wasn’t wrong.
I truly had nothing.
But because I had nothing, I also had nothing to lose.

I walked into the bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out my old suitcase.
I had already folded my clothes the night before.
I quietly placed each piece inside, trying not to make a sound.

My mother-in-law kept watching, sighing as if I were some disappointing daughter-in-law.

“I’m leaving,” I said calmly, my voice steady and low.
“This house will be a bit cleaner without me.”

Phong stood at the door.
His eyes avoided mine.
I didn’t wait for him to speak.
I zipped the suitcase and rolled it past him, feeling like I was walking through thick, cold air.

Looking back, I didn’t know exactly when I became a stranger in my own home.
Maybe it was when my mother-in-law first scolded me for “not knowing how to bear children”—
Right after I had my first miscarriage.
Or maybe it was when Phong didn’t come to pick me up from the hospital—
And his mother arrived first, not to comfort me, but to blame me for being weak.

Each time I was hurt, each bitter moment, I told myself: just hold on a little longer.
But eventually, I realized: I was the only one trying to hold onto this shell of a family.
To them, I was just a servant with the title of wife.

I didn’t tell anyone.
I just left one email to my supervisor, asking for three days off.
The reason?
“To reorganize my personal life.”

I dragged my suitcase down the stairs and caught a ride to the bus station.
No one saw me off.
No one stopped me.
No one asked where I was going.

During the entire ride, I didn’t cry.
My eyes stung, and my chest felt like a stone sat on it.

I rented a small room in a far-off district—
An old place, with peeling paint, but clean and quiet.
It had a small wooden table and a window looking out to low trees.

I sat down, plugged in my phone, and turned on my laptop.
On the screen was an email from an old friend—
Someone I had worked with at my first job, now working at an NGO for women.

She had written:
“If you need to start over, come see me.
You don’t have to be brilliant—just be honest.”

I typed a reply, then deleted it.
Then typed again.

“I’m not brilliant, but I endure.
And I’ve endured enough.”

The next day, I printed the necessary documents—
Copies of my old employment contract,
Bank statements showing how my salary was suddenly cut off after I moved in with my in-laws.

I went to a lawyer’s office, not to file a lawsuit, but to ask for advice.

“If I have no shared assets,” I asked,
“What rights do I have in a divorce?”

The lawyer flipped through the documents and asked,
“Do you have any proof that you were forced to transfer your salary to your husband’s family?”

I looked down and shook my head.

“No. Every time I transferred money, I did it myself.
No one held a knife to my neck.
But everyone knows that not all choices are made freely—
It’s just that no one can prove it.”

The lawyer sighed.
“I can request mediation, or not.
But without evidence, your claim to assets will be very limited.”

I walked out holding a thin folder.
I felt both sad and relieved—
Relieved because I had faced it.
Sad because I realized I hadn’t defended myself for far too long.

That night, I sat by the window in my rented room and opened the old USB drive.
Inside were emails, timecards, screenshots of old text messages.

Not enough to win a case—
But enough to remind myself:
I didn’t make this up.
I was mistreated.
And I wasn’t wrong.

I began to write.
Not to complain—
But to remember.

Every time I looked back, I saw I had come farther than I thought.
Every time I wrote, I felt part of the pain ease.

I stopped trying to prove myself right to others.
I didn’t need anyone to take my side.
I just needed to be clear-headed enough not to go back—
And strong enough to keep moving forward.

The following week, I started working at a women’s support center.
The salary wasn’t high,
But no one asked me where my husband was.
When I said I lived alone, that was enough.

One evening, I came home early and cooked myself dinner.
Just one serving of rice and a bowl of mustard greens.
I set the table slowly.
It was drizzling outside.
The room was warm and softly lit.
The coffee cup next to my laptop still held a bit of warmth.

I looked at the screen—
An unread email.

It was from Phong.

“Are you okay?”

I didn’t reply.
I just quietly shut the laptop.

On the table, an old wedding invitation still sat—
My sister-in-law’s.

I didn’t tear it up.
But I didn’t take it with me either.