Realism

I always thought my wife was just an ordinary "brother-loving sister," the kind who would do anything for her brother. But one night, I watched in frozen horror as she dismembered her brother in our storage room. Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned and looked straight at me. She flashed her usual gentle smile. "Honey," she called softly, her voice sweet and familiar—exactly the same as always.

When my son was born, I noticed a small, round birthmark on his arm. But the weird thing? By the time I opened my eyes again after giving birth, it was gone. I figured maybe I'd imagined it. That is, until the baby shower. My brother-in-law's son, born the same day as mine, had the exact same birthmark. Clear as day. That's when it hit me. I didn't say a word, though. Not then. I waited. Eighteen years later, at my son's college acceptance party, my brother-in-law stood up and dropped the truth bomb: the "amazing" kid I'd raised was theirs. I just smiled and invited him and his wife to take their "rightful" seats at the table.

After helping my husband build his business from the ground up, I settled into life as a full-time housewife. When our daughter's tenth birthday approached, I planned to host a grand celebration for her. I booked a party that cost 2 thousand dollars per table. But when I swiped my card at the hotel, the staff gave me a strange look. "Mrs. Richmond, this card doesn't even have fifty dollars in it to charge." Flushed with embarrassment, I went home to confront my husband. He wore an apologetic expression. "Lately, the company's been competing for contracts. The new government official is insatiably greedy, and I've had to spend a lot under the table to smooth things over. Once the funds turn around, I'll make sure our daughter gets the grand birthday she deserves." I gave him a gentle, understanding smile—but as soon as I turned away, I began tallying our assets. Because that so-called "new government official" was none other than my father. And in his office, there hadn't been any bids or contracts at all. Now I intended to find out exactly where my husband had spent all our money.

I grabbed an extra work meal to entertain a client. My boyfriend's sister saw it and went ballistic, docking my entire $500K commission. She pointed at my nose and screamed, "Are you taking me for a fool? You're just hiding behind 'client entertainment' to rip off the company! It's shameful, damaging the company's image! All of your commission for this month will be deducted as a warning to others." The client looked at me, wide-eyed in shock. I shrugged. "Do what makes you happy. Just don't regret it later." From then on, I started slacking off, and she freaked out.

My brother brings home a scheming girlfriend. He wants to kick me out of the house for her sake and claims that everything at home belongs to him. I hand the company over with both hands and leave without hesitation. Less than a month later, my brother, who can't manage the company, grovels at my feet and begs me to return.

Our family is planning a ski trip at a luxury resort. However, my mother gives my snow-view room to my adoptive sister and makes me, her biological daughter, stay in the storage room. I'm about to protest when my father and brother accuse me of being selfish. "We've always given Madie the best of everything; she won't be able to sleep in any other room." "Madie is our family—she's the one who's lived with us this whole time. We're a family, so we have to stay together." I'm the one who shares their blood, yet they consider me an outsider. If that's the case, they can go on vacation without me. I board a cruise and travel the world for a month without ever going home. That's when they panic.

Three years after my wife's and daughter's deaths, they came back from the dead. Turns out, my wife hadn't died at all. She'd faked it and married the son of the richest man in Notingdun City. Ever since then, she'd stepped into the glamorous life of a wealthy socialite. When I uncovered the truth, the shock hit me like a bolt of lightning. I confronted her face-to-face. She didn't even flinch. Instead, she sneered, "You think a penniless man like you deserves to be my husband? I've remarried and taken on a new identity. Stay out of my life, or don't blame me for what happens next." Her words cut deep. Even our daughter turned her back on me. Crushed, I let go for good. But not long after, she came back regretful and begged me to remember the vows we made on our wedding day: to never leave, never forsake. I looked at her and laughed coldly. "Yes, I did make that promise once. But sadly, my wife died three years ago."

I'm a private photographer. Many female college students come to me to get their portraits shot. In return, they choose to offer me their supple bodies. One day, I receive an order to take wedding photos of a couple. However, that night, the bride insists on having me sleep with her… Could it be that her husband can't even afford to pay me for my services?

I suffer from a hereditary form of amnesia. By the time I found out, I had only seven days left. On the first day, I found my boyfriend had fallen for my younger twin sister. With a bitter smile, I suggested we break up. On the second day, my most treasured Lego set was smashed by my sister. Everyone laughed at me, saying I was disgraceful, unworthy of being a daughter of the Fleming family. On the fourth day, I forgot that my sister was allergic to mangoes. She ended up in the hospital, and my parents glared at me with resentment. Even my ex-boyfriend accused me of being heartless. On the seventh day, I woke up in a hospital bed to see my father walking in with a stern expression. He demanded that I quit my job and devote myself entirely to taking care of the family, as nothing more than a housekeeper. But I only looked at them in confusion and asked softly, “Who are you?” When they realized I had truly lost my memory, they lost their minds.

My wife was gone for 6 months on a business trip. The day she returned, however, she was not alone. Hand in hand, my wife showed up with her lover—my client. This was not even the worst part—she was also 3 months' pregnant. My client, in all his beer-bellied arrogance, hurled the contract at my feet, smirking. "Mr. Carter, your wife has gone to so much trouble for this partnership. Truth be told, I would never, not even in a million years, have agreed to partner with you if it wasn't for her!" My wife caressed her pregnant belly and said smugly, "I was the one who successfully got Mr. Lewis' business! I'll let you have it, though, as long as you agree to get a divorce!" I tore the contract into shreds and roared, "You want a divorce? Fine! I'll give it to you, but I'll never sign this!"