My Husband Called Me Crazy, and My Son Believed Him

After I turned down Adriel Hester’s divorce request for the third attempt, I did something completely foolish.

Foolishly, I turned his chat logs and hotel records with his assistant into a PowerPoint and put it on the internet.

I even wrote out every grievance, every silent cry from our five-year marriage, setting them out as a complaint.

Right when I believed I could finally taste the joy of revenge, the police arrived to take me away.

Only at that moment did I learn that Adriel had reported me for breaking his privacy.

Because of that, I was about to step into the darkest five days of my life.

But on the third day, he showed up holding our son’s newest award-winning essay.

The essay title was, [I Have a Crazy Mom.]

At that second, the belief I had held so tightly broke apart without pity.

Seeing the cold look in Adriel’s eyes, I stopped fighting back. With a rough, dry voice, I said, “Adriel, I agree to the divorce.”

——

“Melanie, other than the custody of the child, you can ask me for anything.”

Now that he had the answer he aimed for, Adriel was no longer pushing me as hard as before. For the first time, he even acted a little more agreeable.

I had nothing left in me. I didn’t scream at him anymore.

Calmly, I answered what I wanted. “I want one million.”

When he heard it, a small hint of surprise passed over Adriel’s face.

He had assumed I wouldn’t let go of custody so quickly, that I would keep fighting him.

He had even gone through how he planned to handle me if I tried to fight for it.

But what I said was nothing like what he had pictured.

“Only one million?” He stared at me, still doubtful, and asked again, “If you take that one million, you won’t have any connection to your son from then on.”

With his questions hanging there, I gave a calm nod.

Adriel looked like he wanted to keep talking. His lips moved for a moment, but he stayed silent.

“Fine. When you get out, we’ll complete the divorce registration. Melanie, you’d better not deceive me.”

He left that warning behind and walked away.

After he was gone, I moved overseas. My mother, whom I hadn’t seen in five years, arrived with a lawyer.

She soon arranged my bail with no trouble.

When we stepped out of the police station, she casually took a pack of women’s cigarettes from her pocket, lit one, and after letting out a slow breath of smoke, she turned to me, worn out from head to toe.

“So now, are you ready to come with me?”

I had lived twenty-seven years.

This was the second time she had asked me that. The first time was when she divorced my cheating father.

She didn’t want anything and only wanted to take me with her.

But everyone around us kept saying that if six-year-old me went with her, when she had no money, I would only drag her down.

So I didn’t follow what I wanted.

I chose to stay with my father.

After hearing my choice, she didn’t argue. She walked away, quick and final.

But now and then, I still blamed her a little.

I blamed her for leaving me behind, for walking away from our home.

When I married Adriel, she showed up at the wedding and said, “Melanie, before you love someone else, learn to care for yourself first. Don’t pour your whole heart into others. Treat yourself kindly.”

Back then, I was incredibly naive.

I believed that after ten years with Adriel, what we shared could not be shaken. I thought he would care for me the way he cared for himself, always the same.

Holding my anger in, I shot back at her, “Do you think everyone is as selfish as you? Always expecting others to love you, never thinking about how to make yourself someone worth loving.”

She didn’t get upset at what I said.