She Got His Love, I Got His Chores

Holding the fake marriage certificate in hand, I stumbled home in a daze. The familiar stench of urine and feces hit my nose the moment I stepped inside.

It was time to change the adult diaper for my mother-in-law, Kathy Sinclair, who had been paralyzed and bedridden for the past six years.

Without flinching, I wiped her body clean, took out the trash, and opened that online store page again.

I stared at that familiar side profile for a long time before slowly raising my head. I looked around the clean, well-organized house, and a laugh suddenly escaped me. And as I laughed, tears began streaming down my face.

Six years. I'd silently held this family together for six whole years.

Because of me, my husband, Grayson Strickland, was free to stay far away from his sick mother's bedside, free of any worries, and live his refined and admired life as Prof. Strickland.

What I never expected, however, was that while he claimed he was too busy to give me a wedding, he'd already become another woman's perfect husband behind my back.

And that woman was Callista Whitman—the same woman who had once sweetly called me "Mrs. Strickland".

A mocking smile tugged at my lips.

I was just about to leave a comment—"Knowingly being the mistress? Guess your happiness can only be shared online"—when that photo and all the comments were suddenly deleted.

Right after that, a message from Grayson came in, cold and commanding.

"Some students are coming over for dinner tonight. Make sure Mom is cleaned up and cook a few nice dishes.

"Especially your braised pork ribs. Make extra. I want to take some to go."

Braised pork ribs.

If I remembered correctly, the last time Callista came over, she'd clung to my arm and sweetly said that it was her favorite dish. I had been flattered and enthusiastically urged her to eat more.

Thinking back now, it was utterly laughable. I hadn't even realized that the mistress had sauntered right into my home.

Yet, six years ago, Grayson and I had been the perfect couple in everyone's eyes.

I was the most sought-after assistant lecturer in the Literature Department, and he was the aloof, principled professor from the College of Arts.

And yet, this almost untouchable—almost otherworldly—man had pursued me for a full four years.

After we got together, he took care of me with meticulous attention. I never had to top up my phone plan; there were always more than enough sanitary products around, and my phone was always fully charged whenever I left the house. It was that kind of happiness.

So when exactly did it all start to change?

It was when he wanted to share 12th-century poetry with me, but I was busy scrambling to book a specialist appointment for Kathy.

It was when he asked me to prepare the easel for him to paint, but I was frowning as I changed Kathy's diaper.

It was when he gazed at the bright moon on winter nights and wanted to go for a walk, but I was already fast asleep, my hands cracked from the cold.

"Dahlia Prescott, you don't understand me at all," Grayson had once said to me, his eyes full of deep disappointment.

I didn't take it to heart back then. I was only thinking about finding a sturdy, affordable wheelchair so Kathy could attend our wedding.

But now, I finally understood what he meant.

He blamed me for losing the sense of romance we had when we were dating, but he had completely forgotten that I had resigned from my assistant lecturer position—just as I was about to be promoted to a professor—so that I could carry the heavy burden for him.

The clock on the wall had long been broken. Only the hands kept ticking stubbornly in place. Listening to that relentless ticking, I suddenly felt exhausted.

I'd given almost everything I had for the past six years.

From a once radiant, brilliant, and talented woman, I'd worn myself down into a haggard, exhausted housewife. And yet, he'd never once seen me as his wife.

If that was the case… then I didn't want this so-called home anymore.