Chapter 4 — The Divorce ATM

His spirits were high. He stood before the mirror, adjusting his collar—the same blue shirt he had worn on Valentine’s Day last year. That night, he had told me he was stuck working overtime. Later, I found his review on the public dining app: five stars for a high-end French restaurant, with the note, “Perfect for a date.” The date of the review matched Valentine’s Day perfectly. He had spent his evening eating steak with Dao Tham, while I sat at home alone, nursing a cup of instant noodles.

“I’m heading out,” he said, pulling his suitcase toward the door.

He glanced back at me briefly. “Take a taxi to the airport. Don’t be late. The flight is at ten; you need to be there by eight.”

“Understood.”

He smiled, pushed the door open, and stepped out. The door clicked shut. I sat on the sofa, staring at the entryway for five minutes, waiting until I was certain his car had cleared the residential complex. Then, I called Phuoong Vien.

“He’s gone.”

“Received. Trieu Nguyet is already at Terminal 3. The preservation order will be filed at nine o’clock.”

“Good.”

I hung up and moved to the next step. I sent a WeChat message to my mother-in-law. “Mother, are you free the day after tomorrow? I’d like to invite you over for dinner.”

She replied almost instantly. “Of course. Is everything alright?”

“Nothing major. Just that Dien Tu is away on a business trip, and I feel a bit lonely on my own.”

“Very well. I will come over that afternoon.”

A business trip. She knew he wasn’t on a business trip, but she played her part perfectly. She always had. At nine-forty in the morning, Chau Dien messaged me. “I’m at the airport. Have you left yet?”

I replied, “Almost.” At nine-fifty, another message came. “I’m at the international departure hall at Terminal 3. Find me when you arrive.”

“Will do.”

At ten-oh-one, my phone buzzed. A video from Phuoong Vien, filmed by Trieu Nguyet. The frame shook briefly before steadying on the departure hall. Chau Dien stood at the check-in counter beside a woman with long hair, wearing a white dress and pulling a pink suitcase. It was Dao Tham. In the video, Chau Dien handed two passports to the airline agent. The staff member took them, typed at the keyboard, and then paused. She typed a few more times, looked up at Chau Dien, and spoke. The audio was unclear, but I saw the color drain from Chau Dien’s face. His smile vanished. His mouth opened, then clamped shut. The agent pointed at the monitor. Chau Dien looked, his expression shifting from composed to deathly pale. Dao Tham leaned in to look, then turned to him. As she spoke, Chau Dien began to gesture, clearly attempting to explain. Dao Tham stepped back, yanking her pink suitcase away. Her face shifted from confusion to open hostility. Chau Dien reached out to stop her, but she shoved his hand away, her voice rising. Trieu Nguyet zoomed in. I read her lips clearly: “You lied to me?”

Chau Dien stammered a reply, but Dao Tham cut him off, her voice louder now. Trieu Nguyet sent a follow-up text: “She said: ‘Didn’t you tell me you two had been separated for a long time? Then why is the ticket booked under her name?’”

Separated. He had told Dao Tham we were long since separated, while he had told me that he and Dao Tham were completely finished. He had been deceiving us both. The video ended, and Phuoong Vien added: “Video saved. Do you need anything else?”

“That is enough.”

I put the phone down and looked at the clock in the living room. Ten-oh-nine. His call would come soon. At ten-eleven, the phone rang. It was Chau Dien. I answered.

“What the hell is going on?!” His voice was booming, frantic.

“What do you mean?”

“The ticket! It’s been canceled! Did you mess up the booking?”

“I didn’t mess anything up.”

He paused. “What are you trying to say?”

“I canceled it.”

Three seconds of silence. “You… why would you cancel it?”

“Because I was the one who bought the ticket.”

“I…”

“The name change was your doing.”

He fell silent.

“And the cancellation was mine.”

Five seconds. Ten.

“How… how did you know about the name change?”

“The airline app keeps a history. The user logged as Chau Dien. You changed ‘Co Niem’ to ‘Dao Tham’.”

His breathing grew heavy. “Co Niem, please, let me explain…”

“No need.”

“She’s just…”

“No need to explain.”

I hung up. He called back immediately. I declined. He called again. Declined. He called a third time. I switched the phone off. At ten-eighteen, a message from Phuoong Vien arrived: “The court’s preservation order has been issued. Both properties are now frozen.”

Both. Our home and the apartment in Thuy Dinh Uyen. Everything was frozen. While he stood in a panic in the airport terminal, the law had already moved. At one o’clock that afternoon, my mother-in-law called. I answered.

“Niem Niem! What kind of game are you playing? Dien Tu said you canceled his ticket! Do you have any idea…”

“Mother,” I interrupted. “I bought that ticket. It cost seventy-six thousand. I saved for three months to afford it.”

“That still doesn't justify—”

“The passenger name was changed to Dao Tham.”

She fell silent for a heartbeat. “What… Dao Tham? What are you talking about?”

She was playing the part so well. “Mother, your acting is superb. But you haven't forgotten about that group chat, ‘Our Family Matters,’ have you?”

Silence hung on the other end of the line, stretching thin and heavy.

“How… how did you know about that group?”

“The iPad,” I said coldly. “You were still logged into your WeChat.”