Breaking a Marriage Scam
I stood by the kitchen island in the open-plan kitchen, carefully placing the toast I had just taken from the oven onto the blue-and-white porcelain plate.
The edges of the toast bore an enticing caramel color, the warm scent of wheat and butter slowly permeating the air.
Such mornings had repeated themselves for a full three years.
Since I resigned from a well-known design company three years ago, tending to household chores, preparing three meals a day, and waiting for my husband, Mark Young, to return home have become the sole focus of my life.
The design sketches I once cherished were set aside, and the creativity at my fingertips gradually yielded to the mundane smoke and heat of daily life.
Mark came home over an hour earlier than usual today.
Just after four in the afternoon, the sound of a key turning in the lock came from the entrance hall.
I wiped my hands and walked into the living room, where I saw him clutching two sheets of neatly folded A4 paper, his fingertips repeatedly tracing their edges.
His face was much more tense than usual; the gentle brows and eyes I once knew were now shrouded in an inescapable melancholy, as if veiled by dust.
He moved to the coffee table in the center of the living room and gently placed the two sheets of paper before me, his fingertips still unconsciously brushing their edges, as if trying to mask his inner unrest.
"Take a look at this." His voice was noticeably lower than usual, his eyes deliberately drifting toward the greenery outside the window downstairs, avoiding my gaze entirely, unwilling to meet my eyes.
I set down the still-warm cup of milk; the soft clink as its base touched the coffee table rang sharply in the quiet living room.
I reached out, took the two sheets of paper, and unfolded them slowly.
"Infertility Diagnosis" and "HIV Positive Test Report" — two lines of black Song font stood starkly before my eyes, like two cold stones, instantly numbing my fingertips.
A cold shiver surged from the soles of my feet up to the crown of my head, making me shudder uncontrollably.
I suddenly raised my eyes to Mark Young, my throat tightening, my voice trembling with disbelief: "This... how could this be my report? When I had my check-up at the hospital last week, I specifically asked the doctor, who clearly said all my health indicators were normal, not even a minor problem."
I fixed my gaze on him, hoping he would tell me this was just a cruel joke.
Mark Young let out a heavy sigh and reached out his hand as if to touch my shoulder, perhaps intending to comfort me.
But instinctively, I recoiled, avoiding his touch.
His hand hung frozen in the air, then slowly retreated after a few seconds, his voice feigning helplessness and tenderness: "The hospital only sent the final detailed results yesterday. When I first received them, I couldn't believe it either and confirmed with the hospital several times." Willow, listen... let's just get a divorce. I don't want these things to hold you back in life."
His words were like a blunt knife, slowly cutting through my heart.
I looked at his feigned affection, my heart full of doubt yet unable to find a reason to argue, helplessly allowing unease to spread within me.
Just past eleven at night, the bedroom lay in absolute silence.
Mark Young was sleeping deeply; his steady breath sounded unusually clear in the stillness, even faintly tinged with a soft snore.
But I found no rest—my mind kept replaying the words on the day's report and every sentence Mark had spoken.
Each word was like a needle piercing my heart, leaving a sharp ache.
I slipped quietly from beneath the covers and rose, walking barefoot toward the study.
By the faint glow spilling in from the living room, I opened the briefcase Mark had placed in the desk drawer.
I would never have thought to rummage through his things before, but today, the doubts stirred by that report forced me to break this habit.
In the briefcase's inner compartment lay a folded hospital receipt and a mobile phone screenshot, resting silently.
I unfolded the receipt; the payment item was glaringly labeled "Fabrication Fee for False Diagnostic Report," with the payer's name clearly printed as Mark Young.
I then took up the mobile phone screenshot, showing W Chat chat records between Mark Young and someone marked "Lydia."
"Mark, I've prepared the report exactly as you requested. I pulled some strings at the hospital lab; it's crafted to be identical to the real thing, with absolutely no flaws."Following the news about "Lydia," there was a playful smile emoji, brimming with a certain pride.
Mark Young's reply was brief, yet it pierced my heart like a sharp blade: "Thank you for your effort, Lydia. Once she signs the divorce agreement, the house and savings will all be mine. I'll transfer you half as compensation then."
I gripped the screenshot on my mobile phone tightly, my knuckles whitening with the force, my fingernails nearly digging into my palm.
It turned out that those so-called "illnesses" were nothing but a scheme hatched by him and this woman called "Lydia."
Their intention was to make me believe I was seriously ill, to fill me with guilt and coerce me into signing the divorce agreement, then to force me out of the marriage penniless, so he and that woman could take over our house and savings.
Anger and disappointment surged over me like a tide, and tears welled up uncontrollably in my eyes.
I suppressed my sobs, afraid of waking Mark Young, letting the tears fall in silence.
The next morning, Mark Young sat across from me at the table, casually spreading jam on his toast as he brought up the divorce again: "Willow, have you given any thought to the divorce I mentioned yesterday? I've already found a lawyer. The divorce agreement can be ready today. If you have no objections, let's finalize the process as soon as possible. It's better for both of us."
His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather, betraying not a flicker of the urgency within.
I set down the utensils in my hand and pushed the hospital receipt I found yesterday, along with the mobile screenshots, towards him.
My voice was calm without a single tremor, yet carried an unmistakable chill: "Mark Young, must I really explain once more how you and Lydia Carter conspired to falsify my diagnostic report?"
I fixed my gaze on his eyes, eager to witness his defense.
The moment Mark saw the receipt and the screenshots, his face instantly went ghostly pale.
He fumbled anxiously, reaching for the mobile phone on the table, his voice trembling with panic and anger: "How did you see these things? Who told you to go through my briefcase without permission? This is an invasion of my privacy!"
His voice grew louder, attempting to cover his guilt with anger.
"What is done in secret will eventually be revealed." I reached out and held his hand, stopping him from grabbing the phone, my gaze steady as I faced him. "Divorce is fine; there's nothing to negotiate. But the one who should leave this home is you, not me."
I will not let his scheme succeed, nor will I allow myself to suffer injustice in vain.
After I exposed Mark Young's deceit, his face turned an ashen shade of fury.
He abruptly rose, shoving the chair aside; its legs scraped harshly against the floor, breaking the stillness of the living room.
Without a word, he snatched the coat from the sofa and slammed the door behind him.
I was left alone in the living room, with only the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to the air—sharp and repulsive.
On the armrest of the sofa still lay the scarf I had painstakingly knitted for his birthday last year.
A creamy off-white wool scarf, embroidered with the initials of his name, each stitch fine and precise.
I remember when he received the scarf, he smiled as he wrapped it around his neck, drawing close to me and saying, "A scarf knitted by my wife is much warmer, far better than those brand-name ones bought in the malls."
Back then, his eyes were full of tenderness, but now, in retrospect, perhaps all that tenderness was merely a facade.
My thoughts involuntarily drift back to the time when we first met.
At that time, we had both just graduated from university and were interning at the same advertising Company.
Because the salary was low, we squeezed into a small single room in an old apartment complex in the city center.
That rented room had no heating in winter; every night, the air inside was as cold as an ice cellar, and our breath formed white mist.
He would always tuck my hand into the pocket of his down jacket, exhaling warm breath, and say to me in a gentle voice, "Willow, wait a little longer for me. When I get promoted, I'll buy a big house with heating, so you'll never have cold hands or suffer through winter again."
At that moment, his eyes were full of hope, and I foolishly believed that our future would only grow brighter.
The promises then were so genuine, each word imbued with warmth, pressed tenderly upon my heart.
To support him fully, sparing him from household worries, I chose to resign from that promising design company.
From that moment on, I washed clothes, cooked meals, and cleaned every day, keeping the house meticulously orderly, my heart full of hope for the day he would 'achieve success and fame,' and we could live the life he once promised.
I believed my devotion would secure lasting happiness, yet reality struck me a crushing blow.
He was indeed promoted, climbing from intern to department manager, and we bought this spacious, sunlit home—yet he forgot the promises made long ago, forgot the sacrifices I bore for this family, and schemed to use the vilest and most painful methods to cast me out of our home.
Just as I was engulfed in the chasm between memory and reality, my heart heavy with bitterness, the mobile phone suddenly rang.
The name "Jane Miller" appeared on the screen, like a shaft of light cutting through the gloom of my mood.
Jane Miller was my closest friend in college, the very one who had earnestly urged me not to resign so hastily.
She said that a woman must have her own career and cannot place all her hopes on a man; but at the time, I did not heed her words.
"Hello, Jane." I answered the call, my voice hoarse from sorrow, touched by a faint, barely perceptible catch.
The moment I heard her voice, I nearly lost control of the emotions I had been holding back for so long.
"Willow, what's wrong? You don't sound like yourself. Has Mark Young upset you again?" Jane Miller's voice was filled with clear concern. She had never liked Mark Young, always feeling he cared too much about his career and not enough about me.
Whenever we argued, she would always stand by my side.
I sniffled, fought back tears, and painstakingly told her every detail about Mark Young's forged diagnostic reports—falsifying infertility and HIV results—to trick me into being divorced without a penny.
With each word spoken, the grievance in my heart grew heavier, and my voice trembled uncontrollably.
After a few moments of silence on the other end of the line, Jane's angry voice burst forth. Even through the phone, I could feel her fury: "That scoundrel! This is utterly outrageous! Willow, don't waste words on him. Not a single thing that belongs to you should be given up! I'll come over tonight to keep you company. Let's go out for a good meal — consider it an early celebration of your escape from misery; you'll never have to endure his cruelty again!"
After hanging up, a profound sense of relief washed over me.
Yes, I still have good friends like Jane and a supportive family. I can no longer wrong myself for someone like Mark Young.
I must start thinking for myself now; I need to reclaim the confident, independent self I once was.
Just after six in the evening, Mark Young returned once again.
He held a printed divorce agreement in his hand, but the anger that had once clouded his face had vanished, replaced by an expression of entreaty. His voice softened: "Willow, I know I was wrong. Please, give me one more chance, won't you? I have severed all ties with Lydia Carter and will never associate with her again. Let us return to living as we once did, peacefully together. Will you?"
He grasped my hand, his eyes filled with pleading.
I looked at his false face—the smile that once brought me warmth and comfort now only filled me with revulsion.
I gently withdrew my hand and shook my head, my voice calm but resolute: "Mark Young, the days we had are gone, and things between us will never be the same again.""I will have a lawyer review the divorce agreement. I will not relinquish even a fraction of what is rightfully mine."
"I will no longer be taken in by his smooth words. This time, I will fight for the rights I deserve."
On a weekend morning, just as dawn was breaking, I rose from bed.
I deliberately went to the flower shop and bought a bouquet of fresh white chrysanthemums. Their petals were pure and flawless, exuding a faint, delicate fragrance—much like Mother's clean and pure love.
Then I drove to the cemetery on the outskirts of the city, where my mother is laid to rest.
Since Mother passed away, whenever I face troubling matters, I come here to pour out my heart to her.
Mother's tombstone stands amid a pine forest, surrounded by profound silence, broken only by the rustling of pine needles in the wind, like Mother's gentle whisper.
In the photograph on the tombstone, Mother smiles gently, her eyes full of tenderness, just as she appeared in life.
I knelt before the tombstone, gently placing white chrysanthemums upon the stone slab, then carefully brushed the dust from the tombstone with my fingers, my touch as delicate as if afraid to disturb my sleeping mother.
"Mom, I've come to see you." My voice was soft, laced with a hint of choking emotion, "I'm going to divorce Mark Young. He deceived me and even fabricated my diagnostic report, trying to force me to leave the marriage without a penny."
As I spoke, my hand gently caressed the photograph of Mother on the tombstone, tears slipping uncontrollably down my cheeks. "I used to believe that as long as I treated him well and took care of our home, we would always be happy. But I never imagined he would treat me this way."
The wind rustled through the pine trees with a soft "shush, shush," as if Mother were tenderly responding to me, offering comfort.
I continued pouring out my heart to Mother: "In the past, whenever trouble came, I thought if I just endured a little longer, it would pass. I believed that stepping back would open up the vast sky. But now I realize some people simply aren't worth my suffering."Mom, don't worry. From now on, I will take good care of myself. I won't let you worry anymore. I will reclaim my life and live in the way you hope to see.
After speaking with Mom, my heart felt much lighter, as if I had found the courage to face everything.
I sat by the tombstone for a long while, only rising to leave as the sun gradually rose.
Returning from the cemetery, I had just opened the door to my home when I saw Mark Young's mother, Lucy Lewis, seated on the living room sofa.
She wore a dark coat and clutched a handbag. Seeing me enter, she immediately stood up, her face etched with displeasure and accusation. In a sharp tone, she said, "Willow, what on earth is going on? Mark is such a good man and treats you so well, yet you want a divorce? Do you have someone else, which is why you don't want to be with him anymore?"
The moment she spoke, she shifted all the blame onto me, without once asking about the reasons behind it.
I changed my shoes and sat down by the sofa. I was not angered by her accusations; instead, I looked at her calmly and said, "Ms., please don't be so quick to blame me." Did you know that Mark Young forged my infertility and HIV diagnostic reports, intending to leave me divorced without a penny? Do you really understand the truth of the matter?
I looked into her eyes, hoping she would calm down and let me finish speaking.
Lucy Lewis was momentarily stunned, clearly unprepared for what I had said.
She knitted her brows, her voice laced with a hint of doubt: "Don't spout nonsense here. Mark Young isn't that kind of man! He's so honest—how could he possibly do such a thing? There must be some misunderstanding; something's definitely wrong."
She had always trusted her son and refused to believe that Mark Young could do such a thing.
"Whether I'm mistaken or not, you can ask Mark Young yourself." I took out my mobile phone, found the previously saved screenshots of the chat between Mark Young and Lydia Carter, and handed them to Lucy Lewis. "These are the chat records between Mark and Lydia. They clearly show how they conspired to forge the report. You can judge for yourself."
I no longer argued with her; instead, I let the evidence speak for itself.
Lucy Lewis took the mobile phone with a blend of doubt and hesitation, her fingers scrolling across the screen. The more she looked, the more her complexion darkened—initial confusion turned to shock, and finally to an anger she could no longer conceal.
She muttered incessantly under her breath, "That wretched boy, how could he do such a thing..."
Just then, the door suddenly opened, and Lydia Carter stepped inside.
In her hand, she carried an exquisite basket of fruit, her face adorned with a plaintive expression, as if burdened by some grievous wrong.
When she saw Lucy Lewis and me, she immediately lowered her head, wearing the look of someone who had done something wrong.
"Mrs. Young, Ms. Scott, I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I was the one who went after Mark Young. I was the one clinging to him. Please don't blame him—blame me if anyone." Lydia Carter spoke as she lifted her head, her eyes red, as though she was about to cry, her act remarkably convincing.
She tried to take all the blame on herself to win sympathy, while shielding Mark Young.
I looked at her feigned display and couldn't help but sneer, my tone thick with sarcasm: "Ms. Carter, stop pretending to be the good one here."When you and Mark Young conspired to falsify my diagnostic report, intending to force me out of our marriage without a penny, why did you never think to say 'sorry'? And now, pretending to be pitiful here—do you find that amusing?
I ruthlessly tore through her facade, watching the expression on her face stiffen bit by bit, feeling not a shred of sympathy.
Lydia Carter's face flushed instantly, as if caught in a lie before everyone.
She lowered her head even further, no longer daring to speak, only twisting the hem of her clothes with trembling hands, utterly mortified.
The atmosphere in the living room shifted abruptly to awkwardness; Lucy Lewis glanced at Lydia Carter, recalled the contents of the chat records, and her complexion darkened further.
After reading the chat records on the mobile phone, although Lucy felt a surge of anger, she still instinctively defended her son.
She handed the phone back to me, took a deep breath, and said firmly, "Even if Mark truly made a mistake, you can't be so heartless! No married couple goes without quarrels or faults, right? Besides, Mark paid the down payment for this house and has been steadily paying the mortgage. On what basis can you prevent him from living here?"
She attempted to use the issue of the house to pressure me, forcing me to give in.
"Ms., you must be mistaken. We bought this house after we got married. Although Mark paid most of the down payment, we have been paying the mortgage together, and all the renovation expenses were covered by the money I saved from my previous job." I pulled the photocopy of the property deed from the drawer, placing it deliberately on the coffee table. Pointing at the registration date, I said, "By law, this house belongs to our marital joint property—I own half of it.""Besides, Mark Young is the one at fault in our marriage. He had an affair and even fabricated reports to deceive me. If this goes to court, the share of property he receives will only be smaller."
I am fully aware of my rights and will not be shaken by her words.
At that moment, Mark Young also came back.
Seeing Lucy Lewis and Lydia Carter together in the living room, his face immediately darkened, as if their presence was utterly unexpected.
He stepped in front of me, his tone tinged with impatience and menace: "Willow, what do you really want? Do you have to make this a big deal? Can't we just part on good terms?"
He was still trying to make me compromise, to make me abandon holding him accountable.
"You were the one who made things irreversible first, not me." I lifted my head, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. "I'm giving you both two choices: either you move out voluntarily, and I won't pursue the matter of your falsified report;""Or I'll hire a lawyer to sue you. Then not only will you have to move out, but you'll also bear the litigation costs and might even face legal consequences."
I left the choice to them while making my own stance clear.
Lydia Carter suddenly stood up from the sofa, pointed at me, and shouted sharply, "Don't go too far! Mark loves you so much; he has sacrificed so much for you. How can you treat him like this? You're heartless!"
She tried to trap me with guilt, using moral pressure.
"Love me?" I felt a mixture of anger and amusement and couldn't help but retort, "You say he loves me? Would someone who loves me forge my HIV diagnostic report to inflict such mental and physical torment? Would he conspire with you to cheat me out of what's rightfully mine? Ms. Carter, perhaps your idea of 'love' is utterly warped."
I looked at her, my eyes full of contempt, leaving her utterly speechless.
Mark Young was left completely speechless by my words, his face flushing pale and then turning blue.
Suddenly, he flew into a rage, lunging forward to grab my wrist, his voice fierce: "Don't be shameless! Don't think I won't dare to do something to you!"
He lost all sense and tried to threaten me with violence.
I immediately stepped back, dodging his hand, while pulling out my mobile phone and pressing the record button: "Try touching me again. I'm calling the police right now to report domestic violence, along with the previous fraud—just think about the consequences yourself."
I won't let him get away with this; the recording is to preserve the evidence.
Mark Young froze in place. He looked at the mobile phone in my hand, his eyes blazing with anger and resentment, yet he dared not step forward—clearly afraid that I might really call the police.
He understood the consequences of calling the police; it would work heavily against him.
Seeing this, Lucy Lewis quickly tugged at Mark Young's arm and whispered urgently, "Mark, let it go. Let's move out first and figure things out later. Confronting her head-on now won't help us."
She was still thinking of Mark Young's best interest, hoping to temporarily compromise and find an opportunity for revenge later.
Mark Young shot me a fierce glare, his teeth clenched as he said, "Just wait—this isn't over. I won't let it end like this."
He left behind a harsh parting remark and turned to pack his things.
I paid him no mind, quietly watching as they packed their belongings.
Lydia Carter quickly moved to help, and the two of them hastily stuffed their things into the suitcase.
Watching them carry their luggage out the door and close it behind them, I finally exhaled deeply, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders, leaving me feeling much lighter.
Their shadows no longer lingered in the living room, nor was there the stifling tension that had weighed down the air; it seemed as though the atmosphere had cleared.
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