Chapter 4

I thought after a peaceful divorce, we'd stay out of each other's way. I didn't expect Jones and Douglas's moral standards to be even lower than I'd imagined.

A colleague sent me a link. I clicked on it—it was Douglas's short video account. She was livestreaming.

In the livestream, Jones and Douglas wore matching couple outfits. One handsome and refined, one gentle and fresh—they actually looked quite compatible.

But what they said was far from as decent as they looked.

Jones spoke eloquently to the camera.

"Yes, I am divorced. When I was young, I thought compatibility was love and rushed into marriage.

But married life was extremely boring. My ex-wife and I repeated a monotonous routine. Every day was groceries and bills, discussing house loans, parents' retirement, when to try for a baby, workplace trivialities."

"I wanted to discuss literature with her, talk about Camus, Shakespeare, Tagore, but she always listened blankly, unable to engage in meaningful conversation with me."

"We lived a mediocre, dull life, like a dim, lusterless grain of sand. Until I met Douglas—my life was reborn."

He looked tenderly at Douglas. Douglas gave a perfectly timed shy smile.

The comments scrolled quickly. Many people were cheering for this divine romance.

"Being with Douglas, we can discuss poetry, philosophy, life's meaning. Our thoughts align, our tastes and interests match. With her, I feel like I'm living life, not just existing."

"After divorcing my ex-wife, I finally felt relieved. No more facing boring daily trivialities, no more facing a narrow-minded, vulgar wife, no more endless pressure from prolonged attempts to conceive..."

Reading this, I froze.

Jones and I had indeed tried to conceive for a long time without success. We went to the hospital once and discovered his sperm viability was too low, making natural conception very difficult.

Following both parents' suggestions, we decided to do IVF.

But it was his fertility problem. I was the one enduring the side effects of ovulation injections. I was the one who would bear the pain and fear of childbirth, and the permanent physical damage.

What right did Jones—a man who was just along for the ride—have to sit here like a victim talking as if he'd suffered?

During these years of marriage, I not only took care of him and gave him a warm home, but also helped care for his aging parents. In his eyes, it was nothing but "narrow-minded and vulgar."

Anger surged up. I moved my finger and typed in the comment box: "A man who cheated during marriage—how dare you act like a victim? Does knowing some literature and art cover up the fact that you're both a cheating scumbag and homewrecker?"

Among all the "perfect match," "talented scholar and beautiful lady," "made for each other" comments, my question stood out particularly.

The comments seemed to pause for a moment, then scrolled even faster.

Through the screen, I smiled and typed another line: "Jones, did you receive the follow-up diagnosis I mailed you?"