Peeling Oranges: A Woman's Revenge

My name is Chengzi. I'm fifty-one years old. The marital status column in my household register says “married,” but I know that line became a joke twenty-seven years and four months ago.

The wedding ring Wang Qi gave me was too big. He said he would replace it with a diamond ring someday.

> Twenty-seven years and four months later, I found that diamond ring in the auction house of his mistress. The receipt was dated on our daughter's birthday.

> In court, his hair now white, he asked me, “Do you really have to destroy me?”

> I peeled an orange in the courtroom, its juice splashing into the corner of my eye. “Back then, you hated getting orange juice on your hands. Now I peel them myself.”

> As I left, my son came after me, clutching an old photo album. On top was a picture of me at twenty-four, wearing a white dress.

> Choking up, he asked, “Mom, could you put extra eggs in the scrambled eggs with garlic scapes?”