Chapter 1 — The Divorce ATM

You took my two first-class tickets to take your ex-girlfriend away. It was only after I had finalized the cancellation that you realized there were no seats left. I was the one who purchased the tickets, yet the passenger name had been changed to hers. Two first-class tickets. From Beijing to Paris. I had spent three months saving every penny for them. On the airline’s application, the black-and-white records were clear. The operator: Zhou Yan. The amendment: changing "Gu Nian" to "Shen Yao."

Your phone was still charging by the bedside. The screen lit up. A WeChat notification popped up. The contact was saved as a heart icon. The message contained four words: "Are the tickets changed yet?"

I stared at those four words. Then, I turned my gaze toward your suitcase. It was already packed. Inside, there were two toiletry kits. One blue, one pink. The pink one was brand new, the tags still attached. Tucked beneath a tag was a sticky note. The handwriting was not yours. It was a woman’s script—rounded, adorned with a tiny heart at the end of every sentence. It read: "Thank you, hubby."

That sticky note was written in a very round hand. It was not mine. My handwriting is slender, heavy on vertical strokes, light on horizontal ones. This person’s writing was bubbly, with a little heart after every period. Hubby. She called you hubby. I placed the note back exactly where I had found it. You were in the bathroom; the sound of the shower was deafening. I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping my phone. I opened the airline app and reviewed the modification log once more. The time of the change: 2:17 PM yesterday.

At two o'clock yesterday afternoon, I was in a monthly board meeting at work. You were at home, deleting my name from the passenger list, replacing it with Shen Yao. Shen Yao. I recognized that name. Your college sweetheart. You two had been together for two years. Before we married, you had promised me, "That chapter ended a long time ago, you don't need to worry." My mother had once asked you about it. You had thumped your chest and declared, "Auntie, in this life, my heart belongs only to Gu Nian."

Those two tickets were bought with my year-end bonus. Thirty-eight thousand per seat. Seventy-six thousand in total. I had scrimped for three months. I hadn't bought a single new piece of clothing. I brought my own lunch to work every day to avoid ordering takeout. I took the bus everywhere instead of catching taxis. For your birthday, I gave you a scarf that cost one hundred and twenty yuan. I didn't even celebrate my own birthday, because every cent had to be saved for those tickets. Our third wedding anniversary. First class. Paris. Seven days. I wanted to give you a surprise. The night I booked the trip, I sent you the itinerary. You smiled as you looked at it. You pulled me into your arms and said, "You are the best decision I ever made."

That night, you held me while you slept. Very tightly. It felt so real. I had believed it.

The water stopped. You walked out of the bathroom, your hair still damp. Seeing me sitting on the edge of the bed, you smiled. "Why aren't you asleep yet?"

"Waiting for you."

"Get to sleep earlier tomorrow. We have to wake up early for the day-after-tomorrow's flight."

The flight the day after tomorrow. You said it so naturally, as if the names on those two tickets were still yours and mine.

"Okay," I said.

You lay down and turned off the lamp. I lay down too, closing my eyes, but I couldn't sleep. I waited until your breathing became deep and rhythmic. I picked up your phone. Our accounts were linked under the same phone number. I looked at your food delivery history from the last three months. Forty-one orders. Twenty-nine of them had a delivery address that was not our home. It was an apartment complex I had never visited: Thuy Dinh Garden, Building 7, Unit 2, Room 1802.

Thuy Dinh Garden. I had seen this name before. Last year, when my mother-in-law visited Beijing, she said she wanted to "check out some property." She took me to see a development right next to Thuy Dinh Garden. At the time, I found it strange that she was so familiar with the area. She had laughed and said, "A friend recommended it." A friend. I looked at your delivery history. Twenty-nine orders. Breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea. One order had a special request: "Less ice, extra oats, thank you." I drink my coffee without oats. I don't drink anything with oats. You knew that. This wasn't food you were ordering for me.

I closed the delivery app and opened my phone’s map. I searched for Building 7, Thuy Dinh Garden. It was a six-minute walk from the property my mother-in-law had visited. I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. Beside me, you rolled over, muttering something in your sleep. I couldn't make it out. I turned my head to look at you. You were sleeping soundly, just like every other night. Your phone was by your pillow, the screen dark, but I knew that WeChat notification was still there: "Are the tickets changed yet?"

The contact name was a heart. The message had been sent at 5:43 PM. I had arrived home at exactly six o'clock. She had contacted you seventeen minutes before I did. Perhaps it had been more than seventeen minutes. Perhaps for the last three years, she had always been the one to reach out first. Or perhaps, they had never broken up at all.

The next day, you left for work. Before you departed, you kissed my forehead. "See you the day after tomorrow." You were smiling, looking as handsome as you did in our wedding photos. After the door clicked shut, I sat on the sofa, looking at the living room. Hanging on the wall was our wedding portrait. You were holding me, both of us laughing. That was three years ago.

I pulled my eyes away from the photo and picked up your phone. I held onto your salary card. Your monthly pay was twelve thousand. I had checked it countless times; there were never any issues. But you had another card. I knew of its existence. Last year, when I was helping you top up your phone, a bank message had popped up on your screen—the last digits were 3371. Back then, I hadn't paid it any mind. Now, I tried to link it on my banking app. It required a verification code sent to your phone. You had taken the phone with you, but I knew your banking password. It was the date of our wedding. You had set it that way, saying, "Using this date, I will never forget it."

I logged into the web version of your bank using your ID and password. The transaction history began three years ago. I went through it line by line. Every month, like clockwork: five thousand yuan. Recipient: Shen Yao. Sometimes the note was blank. Sometimes it said "living expenses," other times "rent." Five thousand. Five thousand. Five thousand. Thirty-six months. Just this one category alone totaled one hundred and eighty thousand.

I kept scrolling. In between, there were larger transfers: twenty thousand, fifteen thousand, thirty thousand. The largest was fifty-eight thousand. The note read: "Home renovation." The date was last December. Last December. That month, our mortgage payment was eight thousand five hundred, and I had worked two extra weekends. You had said to me, "Let’s be a little more frugal." Let's be a little more frugal. I took a screenshot of that month.

I kept scrolling until I reached March of last year. A transfer: four thousand eight hundred yuan. Note: "Prenatal checkup." Date: March 19th. I froze. March 16th of last year. I had suffered a miscarriage. March 19th was the third day after my procedure. I was lying in the hospital, and you had said, "I'm going to go park the car," before stepping out. Fifty minutes. When you returned, you were carrying a bowl of pork and preserved egg congee. "The queue at the hospital entrance was so long," you had said with a smile, handing it to me. I had eaten it.

Four thousand eight hundred. Prenatal checkup. March 19th. I exported the entire transaction history. I organized it into a table. Month by month. Item by item. Total: two hundred and eighty-one thousand four hundred yuan. Two hundred and eighty thousand. Last winter, I wanted to buy a down jacket. It was on sale for thirteen hundred. I hesitated for a whole week because you had told me, "Let's be a little more frugal." Every cent I had saved had flowed into Room 1802, Building 7, Thuy Dinh Garden.

I saved the transaction spreadsheet in three places: my phone, my email, and a thumb drive. Then, I did one more thing. I opened the hospital’s app. Our medical accounts were linked under a family share plan. I checked your payment history. Nothing unusual. But under "Family Members," there was a name: Shen Yao. Department: Obstetrics. Payer: Zhou Yan. Date of first prenatal checkup: January of last year. Date of last checkup: August of last year. Seven visits in total.

March 16th of last year. I was in the same hospital, on the fifth floor, in the operating room, having a D&C procedure. On that very same day, on the third floor, in the Obstetrics department, Shen Yao’s record had an entry. Date: March 16th. Payment time: 2:40 PM. My surgery had started at 2:00 PM. You had said you were going to park the car. You were gone for fifty minutes. You had gone from the fifth floor down to the third. You were with Shen Yao for her checkup. During the exact hour I lay on the operating table, losing our child, you were on the third floor, listening to the heartbeat inside another woman.

I sat on the sofa, clutching my phone. The payment records on the screen were still glowing. A breeze blew through the window; the living room was deathly quiet. I didn't cry. I had already cried when I lost the baby last year. Back then, I thought it was just the grief of losing my child. Now I realized, the lost baby was only the surface. Below it lay so much more—dirtier things.

I put my phone down and went into the study. We had an iPad—my mother-in-law’s old one, which she had given to us last year because it was "too laggy." She told us, "You two can use it for looking up recipes." Her secondary WeChat account was still logged in. I opened it. The app automatically logged in. In the notification bar, there was an unread message. Group Name: Our Family. Sender: Yan Zi. Preview: "Tomorrow's flight, don't tell Nian Nian..." The rest was cut off.

"Don't tell Nian Nian." Nian Nian was me. I clicked to open the group.

The group had three members: Zhou Yan, Shen Yao, and Zhou’s mother. I began scrolling from the very first message. The earliest one was from two and a half years ago. Zhou Yan: "Mom, Yao Yao is pregnant." Mother-in-law: "Really? That’s wonderful news!" Shen Yao: "Mom, I will take very good care of myself." Mother-in-law: "Good, good. Don't worry about anything. If you need anything, just tell me." Shen Yao called her "Mom." My mother-in-law told her to "take good care."

I kept scrolling. Zhou Yan: "Gu Nian knows nothing at all. Don't let anything slip." Mother-in-law: "I know. I'm not a fool." A month later. Mother-in-law: "Nian Nian is coming over for dinner this weekend. Yan Zi, don't go to Yao Yao's place that day." Zhou Yan: "Understood." Mother-in-law: "You need to keep Little Shen happy. Last time, Nian Nian smelled perfume on your shirt and kept asking questions. Be more careful in the future."

I continued. January of last year. Shen Yao: "Mom, today's prenatal checkup went well. Everything is normal." Mother-in-law: "That's great. We must ensure this one stays."

March of last year. The month I had my miscarriage. My mother-in-law sent a message: "Nian Nian has miscarried. Keep a low profile for a few days, don't run over there."

Zhou Yan: "Understood."

Three days later, Zhou Yan wrote: "Yao Yao isn't feeling well either. I have to go see her."