When I woke up, the hospital room was empty.
A nurse pushed the door open and came in, telling me I could go to the first floor to pay the fees and be discharged.
I grabbed her arm and asked, “Where’s my husband? My son and daughter-in-law—where did they go?”
She looked at me with a troubled expression, her eyes filled with sympathy and pity.
“Auntie, your family already left. They said you’re in good health and could go home on your own.”
I numbly completed the discharge process, limping as I paid the hospital bill by myself.
I couldn't even remember how I got home.
All I knew was that when I stepped into the house, the lights in the living room were bright. My son and daughter-in-law had already taken my grandson to bed.
And there, on the living room couch, my husband Jameson sat holding Sabrina intimately.
“Sabrina,” he said gently, “the wedding you’ve waited over fifty years for is finally coming true.”
“The biggest regret of my life was seeing you marry my brother, and I married Julienne out of spite.”
He held her tightly, his eyes red with emotion.
Sabrina choked up. “Jameson, you went abroad to study, and my parents forced me to marry. I didn’t even know until later that the man I was marrying was your brother.”
“I never loved him. I’ve only ever loved you.”
Overwhelmed, Jameson leaned in and kissed her passionately.
They clung to each other, completely unaware of—or perhaps uncaring about—my presence.
So this was the truth: Jameson married me not out of love, but to spite Sabrina.
I met Jameson while studying abroad. Being from the same country, we naturally drew close—sharing stories, meals, and quiet moments that made a foreign place feel a little more like home.
In time, that closeness turned into something deeper.
Jameson was the first to confess his feelings, and I said yes without hesitation.
The moment I completed my studies, I returned home and married him, ready to embrace the role of a devoted and loyal wife.
I believed I had married for love—when in truth, I had simply closed my eyes to everything else.
I couldn’t listen any longer. My heart swayed with dizziness.
On the third day, I took a cab to a divorce attorney’s office and asked them to draft the divorce agreement.
I had originally planned to leave some money behind—for my grandson, the youngest and the only one I still felt tenderness for.
My son and daughter-in-law were cold-hearted ingrates. But my grandson had done nothing wrong. I couldn't bring myself to blame the child.
I used all the savings I had left to hire a private investigator—to follow Jameson and Sabrina, and gather evidence of their affair.
Once that was done, I returned home.
When I walked in, Jameson immediately tried to play the doting husband.
“Julienne, here’s the health supplements I promised you at the hospital.”
He handed me several bags full of tonics and nourishing products.
I didn’t take them. I just looked at him, my face expressionless.
He grew uncomfortable under my stare, then stiffly added, “Four days from now is the golden wedding ceremony I’m holding for Sabrina. I need you to help greet the guests.”
So that’s what all the fake kindness was for.
He wanted me to be a servant at their wedding.
I must’ve shown too much in my expression, because his face suddenly twisted with frustration.
“Fine! If you don’t want the supplements, forget it!”
He turned around and stormed off.
“Grandma!”
Just as Jameson left, my little grandson came running toward me, stumbling as he threw himself into my arms.
His innocent face and big, sparkling eyes made my heart ache.
“Grandma, I want ice cream.”
He asked sweetly, blinking up at me.
I laughed and gently tapped his nose.
“You’ve had too much ice cream lately. No more for now.”
“You haven’t even been brushing your teeth properly. What if you get cavities?”
“Be good, brush your teeth every day, and then Grandma will buy you some. Okay?”
The boy’s smile instantly dropped. He burst into tears and pushed me.
“Grandma is mean! You won’t buy me ice cream!”
When pushing didn’t work, he took several steps back and ran at me full speed, trying to knock me down.
I staggered but managed to stay upright.
He had already run off by the time I steadied myself.
Sighing, I just chalked it up to childish tantrums. Kids didn’t know any better.
As I got older, I got tired easily. I went back to my room to rest.
Lying there for a while, I began to feel thirsty and got up to get some water.
As I stepped out of the bedroom and reached the top of the stairs, I saw something that froze me in place.
My grandson stood at the foot of the staircase—holding a bottle of peanut oil, pouring it all over the steps.
He mumbled to himself as he poured, “I hate Grandma. She won’t buy me ice cream. If Grandma dies, Grandpa can be with Grandma Sabby.”
“I like Grandma Sabby. She’s pretty and always buys me ice cream.”
“I want Grandma Sabby to be my real grandma...”
