Framed as the Cheating Wife

"Mom, you and Dad are still young. You still have time to pursue your own life."

"Yeah, Mom. You shouldn't force yourself to live like this anymore. We'd support you if you got divorced."

The voices of my son, Clark Smith, and my daughter, Melody Smith, rose in perfect unison.

At that moment, I realized I had been given a second chance at life.

In my previous life, I had been deeply moved by how understanding and supportive they seemed. In the end, I went with my husband of twenty-seven years, Timothy Smith, to file for divorce.

My daughter quickly played matchmaker, introducing me to George Carter, a gentle and refined man.

We hit it off immediately, and our connection grew fast.

But just as I was brimming with joy, ready to register our marriage, a court summons arrived out of nowhere. It caught me completely off guard.

Timothy had sued me. He accused me of cheating during our marriage.

On the day of the hearing, the same children who had encouraged me to pursue my happiness walked into the courtroom. They painted me as unfaithful and disloyal, leaving no room for defense.

No matter how hard I tried to explain, no one believed me. In the end, I walked away from the divorce with nothing. I was forced out of the home I had spent half my life building.

George and I were labeled adulterers. People cursed us everywhere.

A few self-righteous, extremist internet vigilantes broke into my home. They tied George and me to the bed and doused us with gasoline.

Snapping back to reality, I said flatly, "I will not be divorcing your father."

The moment the words left my mouth, Melody exploded.

"Mom! What do you mean by that? I already talked to Dad about it. He doesn't have any objections. Why did you suddenly change your mind?"

There was even a hint of accusation in her voice.

"You've worked hard for this family for most of your life. Now we're grown and independent. Can't you finally live for yourself for once? We really are doing this for your own good."

My own good, huh?

Of course. They truly cared about me, so much so that they carefully planned my affair, made sure I would leave the marriage with nothing, and that I would end up dead.

Then they could collect the large insurance policy they had already taken out on Timothy and me, with themselves listed as the beneficiaries.

I took a deep breath and forced down the bitter taste rising in my throat.

"I said I'm not getting divorced. That's final."

My firm tone shocked the two of them. For several days after that, neither of them brought up divorce again.

After twenty-seven years of marriage, the love between Timothy and me had long faded. All that remained was a sense of family and responsibility, worn down by years of ordinary life.

More than once, we had talked about separating. But every time we looked at our children, the words died on our lips.

We were afraid a divorce would affect their lives. We were afraid the label of a broken family would make things harder for them.

So the two of us, a couple who had long grown tired of each other, stayed under the same roof. For more than ten years, we played the role of loving parents.

I thought that after giving them everything and raising them with so much hardship, they would feel grateful.

But I was wrong.

In the face of enormous wealth, more than twenty years of parental devotion meant nothing at all.