I Divorce With My Husbands Pretends To Be dead

Fifth year of being married to Brian Locke, and I finally get it—some people aren’t born mute; they just can’t be bothered to speak to me.

His Messenger chat history holds tens of thousands of messages I’ve sent over five years: from sweet check-ins to frantic outbursts, ending in nothing but the dead silence of "read but unanswered." Don’t even get me started on calls—I’d press the dial button until my finger burned, only to be met with that robotic busy tone, mocking my stubborn hope.

First year of marriage, I spiked a 104°F fever in the middle of the night. Delirious, I sent him ten voice messages begging for help. I could hear my own voice shaking, like a tattered rag in the wind, but not so much as a punctuation mark came back. It was the housekeeper who found me collapsed on the floor the next day and rushed me to the hospital.

He came home that night, didn’t even glance at me, just dropped a cold line: "You made a mess of the master bedroom. I’m sleeping in the guest room."

I tried to speak, but my throat felt like it was on fire. In the end, I said nothing. Back then, I still made excuses—He’s just busy. He’s bad at showing feelings.

Second year, I got mugged on a street overseas. When the blade brushed my neck, I thought I was gonna die. I fumbled for my phone, hands shaking so bad I could barely dial his number, and called him twenty times straight. The foreign wind was freezing, cutting through me, until a stranger—another Chinese expat—helped me to the hospital.

Five hours later, he finally called. No concern in his voice, just blame: "Why didn’t you make it to the dinner party on time?"

I held the phone, staring at the bandage on my arm, and suddenly felt bone-tired.

Tired of explaining, tired of fighting—tired enough to want to hurl my phone into the Seine.

But I didn’t. I kept waiting. Waiting for a response that would never come.

Then came the fifth year. On the highway, the dashboard suddenly shorted out. The world spun, and my first instinct was to grab my phone and dial him. That endless "beep-beep" felt like a death knell. I could feel a sharp, heavy pain in my lower belly—our baby, slipping away from me, little by little.

Blood soaked the seat, and blurred my vision entirely.

The operating room lights were blinding. The pain after the anesthesia wore off was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Still bleeding, I stumbled into his office, picked up a hammer, and smashed his damn phone— the one that’d always stayed silent to me—into pieces.

"If you never check messages or answer calls, what’s the point of keeping it?!" I screamed, a caged animal at the end of its rope.

He stood there in his crisp suit, expressionless—as if I’d just smashed a random rock on the street, not his phone.

Then, from the shattered remains, a sharp, distinctive notification chime cut through the air. But before I could process it, the sound died out with my final swing of the hammer.

For the first time, his calm cracked. He grabbed his car keys and bolted out the door, faster than I’d ever seen him move—urgent, desperate.

I felt empty, like my soul had been sucked out. On impulse, I hailed a cab and followed him.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to an upscale apartment complex. The sun was scorching, searing my eyes. I watched a young woman, her hand on her pregnant belly, pale-faced, walk out of the building—her profile soft and gentle.

Brian Locke rushed over, knelt down to listen to her quiet sobs, then lifted her into his arms carefully, his voice low and tender—a tone I’d never heard before: "The baby will be okay. Don’t be scared..."

In that moment, I clung to the car window so tight my nails cracked. The pain shot up my fingers, drawing blood, but I didn’t feel it.

So he could respond to a Messenger message right away.

So he was capable of looking worried, of being this gentle.

So there’d already been another woman in his world. Another baby.

I shook all over, but laughed until tears came. What a coincidence—on the day I lost our baby, I got to see it all with my own eyes.

I stumbled home in a daze and collapsed on the bed. In my dream, the baby who never got to see the world called me "Mommy." I held her, whispering "I’m sorry" over and over.

Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted my wrist. The baby vanished, and in front of me was Brian Locke’s icy face.

"Morgan lost her baby," he said, his voice eerily calm, but his grip on my wrist was tight enough to break bones. "Because you flipped out and smashed my phone. I didn’t see her message in time."

I looked at him and laughed: "Lost it? Good. Why should yours live when mine died?!"

He stared at me, his face so dark it looked like it might drip. After a long silence, he climbed onto the bed, reaching for my clothes, his eyes wild: "You owe her a baby. Get pregnant. Miscarry. Pay her back."

"Brian Locke!" I screamed, my heart numb with pain.

I told him our baby was gone—his and mine. And he... didn’t even hear.

Even face-to-face, his world was closed off to me. Still "read but unanswered."

In the struggle, my hand brushed the fruit knife on the nightstand. Without thinking, I grabbed it and plunged it into his chest.

I hated him. I wanted him dead.

But he was lucky—only a minor injury.

I went to the hospital with my lawyer. He was in the middle of a Zoom meeting, didn’t even glance up—when he was working, he hated interruptions.

Then his phone chimed that distinctive notification. He paused the meeting immediately, typed a long message, his fingers flying.

I glanced over. The chat name was "Morgan."

It felt like an ice pick had stabbed my heart, leaving it cold and empty. So he could reply right away—even pause an important international meeting for her.

They chatted for ten full minutes before he resumed the meeting. An hour later, he finally looked at me.

"Let’s get divorced," I said, my voice steady. "You’re the at-fault party. I want a larger share of the assets."

He froze for a second, surprise flickering in his eyes, then his expression turned cold again: "Morgan’s baby isn’t mine. I never slept with her. I never will."

He paused, then added: "But I’ll do everything to take care of her. Don’t even think about hurting her."

That defensive look felt like a dull knife, slicing my heart slowly. "How long have you been together... Why..."

"A year," he said, ignoring my second question. He pulled a photo from his wallet and handed it to me, then signed the divorce papers without a second glance. "I hope I’ll actually see you at the civil affairs bureau in a month."

The sarcasm in his voice was clear—Come back when you’re done throwing a fit.

He was used to me chasing him, after all. I’d put up with five years of silence, tens of thousands of returnee messages.

But this time, I’d finally woken up.

I said nothing, just stared at his wallet. It had never held a photo of me.

After a long moment, I took the photo, looked at Joanne Morgan’s face, froze for a second, then took a deep breath: "You will."

As I reached the door, he called out suddenly: "That villa in the southern suburbs you liked—I transferred it to Morgan. The forest there has good air; it’ll help her recover after giving birth."

I clenched my fist, my nails digging into my palm: "I told you. That house was my first gift to our baby—even though... she’s gone."

No response from behind me.

I turned around. He was staring at his phone, typing. His attention was already elsewhere.

Hmph.

I walked out of the hospital room quickly, as if running fast enough could shake off this rotten relationship.

In the cab, I took out the photo again, my hands shaking.

She looked so much like her.

Joanne Morgan looked exactly like Brian Locke’s dead first love—the woman he’d really wanted to marry.

Five years ago, the Locke family’s funds dried up. My dad was the only one who offered help—on the condition that Brian marry me. I’d had a crush on Brian, and my dad, seeing that, wanted to help me.

At the family meeting, I looked at him with stars in my eyes. But when he spoke, he said he wanted to marry my step-sister—Lily Bennett, the one my stepmom had brought with her.

That’s when I found out—they’d already had feelings for each other.

My dad refused to risk everything for a step-daughter, so he called off the engagement and told me: "Honey, marriage needs mutual love. Don’t settle for less."

I’d almost given up, but Brian came to me privately, saying he’d marry me to save the Locke family.

He’d just taken me out to dinner once, and I’d fallen again—forgetting my dad’s words. I’d naively thought his change of heart meant he liked me, that with time, he’d fall in love with me.

The wedding was grand, but before the reception ended, we heard Lily Bennett had killed herself.

All I remembered was Brian rushing out of the wedding hall, my stepmom’s wails, the guests’ whispers, and my dad’s sad eyes. The honeymoon was canceled. Everything fell apart.

For the first six months of marriage, he just didn’t reply to messages—said he preferred calls. But once the Locke family got back on its feet six months later, he stopped answering calls too.

I’d been talking to a black hole—pouring in all my joy and sorrow, never getting so much as an echo.

I’d broken down, confronted him, asked why.

He’d thrown our wedding day chat history in my face—Lily Bennett had messaged him before she died, but I’d dragged him around to toast guests, making him miss it.

He hated himself. And he hated me.

Now, he’d found a replacement—someone who looked 80% like Lily—and treated her a hundred times better than he’d ever treated me.

I pulled myself out of the memories, crumpled the photo, and threw it out the window. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror.

Pale, messy hair—like a lunatic.

For five years, I’d clung to him like an idiot. The more he ignored me, the more messages I sent—obsessed, desperate for just one response.

All I’d done was drive myself crazy.

Countless breakdowns, countless attempts to heal, and countless times repeating the same mistakes.

Enough. Really, enough.

I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years.

When the call connected, I heard my own voice shake—but it was steady, determined:

"Stella Shaw. Do you still mean what you said five years ago?"