He didn't come home that night.

After that, she sent pictures or videos almost every day.

My husband spent way more time with her than he did with me, his wife.

I tried everything: crying, yelling, threatening to leave.

His eyes would just fill with disgust, like knives cutting away every last bit of my dignity.

"Look at yourself in the mirror," he'd sneer. "What a mess you are."

A mess? Whose fault was that?

Ten years of marriage, and all I got was 'what a mess'.

Any woman with an ounce of self-respect would have left a hundred times over.

But I was the one with no backbone.

During that time, I watched that show, "The First Half of My Life," a million times. I felt just like the main character, except I had a daughter too.

But I didn't have a best friend like that, or someone to help me like on TV.

If I got divorced, I'd get pennies.

I wouldn't even be able to fight for custody of my children.

TV drama was exciting, but my reality was stark.

I was in a marriage in name only.

At least the bank account he provided for living expenses wasn't cut off.

I envied every woman brave enough to fight back, the ones who left cheating husbands in ruins.

I was the one who just curled up and took it.

At night, my tears soaked the pillow. My chest felt tight, suffocating. It was agony. Utter despair.

For a moment, I thought I might go crazy.

The tears on my lips tasted bitter.

Marriage is a truly cold thing.

I gave in.

I promised to be good, to take care of the kids and his parents, not to interfere with his life.

Because he pulled out the divorce papers.

They showed how, after ten years of not working, with no income of my own, the tiny settlement he offered was a "gift."

I wanted to scream.

Didn't he think about the fact that without me, he wouldn't have two healthy kids?

That he wouldn't have the peace of mind to build his career?

But he was the one with the loud voice.

His word was law.

I had to swallow it.

I couldn't afford to leave.

I endured for over two years.

I waited until their honeymoon phase was over.

They weren't a united front anymore.

Big fights every month or two, small fights daily.

I waited for my chance.

I was ready to settle every score.

Three.

Ethan came back on the third night.

He played with the kids for a bit, then headed straight to his study to work.

I made a cup of tea.

As I pushed the door open slightly, I heard him on the phone.

"No, I won't be sleeping with her. Didn't I just leave your place before coming back?"

"Little minx, you're wearing me out."

Good, I thought. I wouldn't want to touch him anyway.

Swallowing my disgust, I placed the teacup gently on the desk.

I made my voice as soft as possible. "You're almost forty," I said. "You should take care of your health."

He seemed surprised by my words and looked at me strangely for a second.

Then, back to the phone, he said in a syrupy, affectionate voice, "Close the door, you little dummy."

For a brief second, I felt a pang.

When we first got married, he used to call me that.

He'd say I was too innocent for the real world, that he didn't want me to get hurt in the workplace.

I believed him then, truly.

And he was saying it now, with the same affection, but it wasn't meant for me.

He worried about me getting hurt?