On the Day I Was Diagnosed, He Made Me a Bad Debt

Forty years old. I have been a full-time housewife for sixteen years. Middle and late stage gastric cancer. On the day he was diagnosed, I went through his suit pockets. Receipt for baby napkin. Milk powder. Diapers. Newborn size. I didn't ask. Using the instincts of an eight-year-old executive, I opened his computer. An Excel spreadsheet. Sixteen years. My label: waiting for attrition. He quantified my life as bad debt. I used the same format to file his blood, reputation, and future one by one. Every little ticket. Every phone call is recorded. Forged signature every time. All numbered. All are sent to the file. He used Excel to calculate me. I use Excel to clean it up. 3.6 Million worth of housework. Article 280 of the Criminal Law. More than three years and less than ten years. His lawyer pushed the signature pen in front of me: sign this voluntary surrender agreement and leave with 500,000 yuan. I pushed the pen back. Five signed comparison pictures were spread out in front of him. "Lawyer Zhou. The last stroke of the character '' has a hook. He didn't." That night. His lawyer called me crazy in the corridor. The zipper fell apart. I didn't take the pen with me. My son's USB flash drive contains all the records of his trust changes. Someone in my sisters' group found his mistress's property registration for me. My lawyer froze 45% of his company's equity in that blue paper. This is not revenge. This is a reverse audit. This is an archive. This is a reckoning. He waited for attrition. I wrote him off.