After seven years of marriage, my husband cheated on me with a college classmate.
The mistress sent me a photo of a bracelet with my son's name engraved on the pendant. There was only one postscript: "It's been seven years and I still wear it."
I want a divorce, but everyone advises me to endure it. My mother said that there is no man who doesn't cheat on me, my sister-in-law said that there are no capable men nowadays who don't care about others, and my husband said that you don't want a son or a house.
Until I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer, the only person who stayed with me was Chen Xi, the lawyer who helped me with my divorce lawsuit. He himself was fighting over custody rights with his ex-wife, but he shaved his head and accompanied me during chemotherapy. He said with a smile: Now we are brothers.
I started checking. Find out how much property my husband has transferred, find out when the mistress started planning, and find out how many people are around me.
In the end, I found out that even my own mother was transferring money for that man.
I can't bear it anymore.
I spread the evidence on the table one by one, sent the mistress into the interrogation room, and pushed the husband to his knees and begged for mercy. I won the lawsuit, got my property back, and my son is mine.
But I collapsed at the door of the court.
Before I passed out, I put a note into my son's schoolbag: If I am no longer here, let Chen Xi take care of him for me.
The doctor said the chance of me waking up was extremely low.
I don't know if I can open my eyes again, but I haven't lost this battle.
