I Sold Our Wedding House for a Villa

Darling, let's sell the house, my husband said.

That day, he cooked four dishes and even opened a bottle of red wine. A bouquet of flowers, baby's breathmy favoritesat on the table.

I looked at him, feeling a little dazed. We'd been married for five years; the last time he bought me flowers was the day he proposed.

"Sell it and get a bigger one, one with a yard," he poured me wine, smiling gently. "Haven't you always wanted to live in a villa?"

I picked up my wine glass but didn't drink.

"Okay," I said.

He froze for a moment, probably not expecting me to agree so quickly. What he didn't know was that three days prior, I had already seen the chat history on his phone.

1.

Ray had changed.

I couldn't pinpoint the exact day it started, but it was probably around mid-last month.

Before, when he came home from work, he'd kick off his shoes, flop onto the sofa, and cover his face with his phone.

If I said dinner was ready, he'd say "in a minute."

If I told him to wash the dishes, he'd say "tomorrow."

If I reminded him the mortgage was due this month, he'd say "doesn't it auto-deduct?"

For five years of marriage, our conversations revolved around these same few phrases.

But starting last month, things shifted.

He began to cook on his own initiative.

The first time was a Wednesday. I got home from overtime at eight, pushed open the door, and saw the kitchen light on.

He was wearing an apron, stir-frying tomatoes and eggs.

"I got off work early today, so I just cooked," he said.

I glanced at him, saying nothing.

He had been making stir-fried tomatoes and eggs for five years, burning the eggs every time. That day, they weren't burnt.

I sat down and took a bite.

It tasted good.

"Is it good?" he asked.

"It's alright."

"I want to talk to you about something," he put down his chopsticks and looked at me. "I've been thinking lately, isn't our house a bit too small?"

Our apartment was ninety-two square meters, with two bedrooms and one living room. In this city, it wasn't considered small.

"I looked at a few properties," he pulled out his phone to show me. "Look at this one, four bedrooms, two living rooms, with a garden"

"How much?"

"Over five million."

I chuckled.

"Our combined savings wouldn't even be enough for a down payment."

"That's what I'm saying," he put down his phone. "Let's sell our current place first, then add a bit more. This area has gone up quite a lot; we should get at least three point five million."

Three point five million.

He said the number smoothly, as if he'd calculated it many times.

I didn't respond.

This apartment was bought in 2019. Back then, we weren't married yet, just dating.

The down payment of six hundred thousand was what I had saved from four years of work. The loan was one point two million, with monthly payments of six thousand eight hundred.

When we bought the apartment, Ray said, "I'll contribute one hundred thousand."

I waited three months, but nothing.

Six months later, I asked him, and he said, "I'm a bit tight on cash right now; I'll transfer it to you next month when I get my bonus."

A year later, I asked again, and he said, "Aren't we the same? Why be so clear-cut?"

After that, I stopped asking.

I paid the loan myself. I covered the down payment myself. I paid the deed tax myself. I oversaw the renovations myself.

On the property deed, there was only one name.

Mine.

Because it was bought before marriage, and the deed was processed before marriage.

Did Ray know about these things?

He knew I bought the apartment. But he probably didn't remember that the deed was finalized before we got married.

Or maybe he simply never cared.

In his mind, once married, we were family. And family possessions were shared, weren't they?

"So, what do you think?" he urged me. "How about we go see some places this weekend?"

I looked at him.

His gaze was more sincere than at any other time in the past five years.

"Okay," I said. "I'll think about it."

That night, he went to wash the dishes again.

I sat on the sofa and turned on the other phone he had left on the coffee table a few days ago.

Yes, the other one.

He probably thought I hadn't noticed. That phone, with its black case, was hidden in the inner compartment of his briefcase. Last Wednesday, he came home drunk, tossed it casually, and it landed on the coffee table.

The next day, he searched his entire bag and finally found it under the coffee table.

When he picked it up, his hand trembled slightly.

From that day on, I knew something was wrong.

But I didn't make a fuss.

I just picked up the phone while he was showering and tried to unlock it.

The password was his birthday.

He hadn't even bothered to change the password.

The screen lit up.

There was only one chat history on WeChat.

The contact's name was a strawberry emoji.

I tapped it open, scrolling up from the latest message.

"Hubby, I miss you so much today."

"Good girl, I'll take you to that Japanese restaurant this weekend."

"When are you going to tell her? You keep dragging it out..."

"Soon, I'm figuring out a way."

"What way?"

"Sell the house first, split the money, then I'll tell her everything."

After reading that, I put the phone back in its original spot.

Then I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and drank it.

My hand didn't tremble.

It wasn't that it didn't hurt.

It was that over these five years, it had hurt so many times that I was numb to the pain.

2.

Ray and I were introduced by a mutual friend from college.

In 2017, I was twenty-seven, and he was twenty-eight.

I worked as an operations manager at an internet company, having just been promoted to supervisor with a monthly salary of fifteen thousand. He was a sales representative at a building materials company, with a base salary of four thousand, plus commission, totaling around eight thousand per month.

My mother had been pressuring me to get married for two years. Every phone call was the same old refrain: "Look at your cousin, her child is already walking." "Girls shouldn't be too picky." "Good enough is good enough."

The first time Ray met me, he brought a bouquet of flowers.

Not baby's breath, but roses. The kind you buy at the supermarket entrance, ten dollars a bunch.

But that day, he said something: "You deserve better flowers. When I make money, I'll buy you a house full of them."

I smiled.

Later, I found out he did buy a house full of flowers.

Just not for me.

During our courtship, he was reasonably attentive.

He would pick me up from work. He would remember my birthday. He would bring me late-night snacks when I worked overtime.

Although the snacks were always Jianbing Guozibecause only that one stall was open downstairs from the company.

I never complained.

I have a flaw: if someone treats me even a little well, I think it's extraordinary.

Probably because throughout my life, not many people have been genuinely kind to me.

In 2018, I decided to buy an apartment.

Property prices were just starting to rise then, and I found this current apartment I liked. The total price was one point eight million, with a down payment of six hundred thousand.

I had saved five hundred twenty thousand from four years of work. I was short eighty thousand, which I borrowed from my mother.

My mother only said one thing: "Put it in your name."

I said, "Of course."

Ray was very excited when he learned I was buying an apartment.

"This will be our future home!" he said. "I'll contribute one hundred thousand for the down payment."

I said okay.

One hundred thousand. He said it three times, each time very earnestly.

The first time was when we viewed the apartment. The second time was when we signed the contract. The third time was when the down payment was due.

Each time, I believed him.

But the money never materialized.

The first month, he said he had just paid rent, so next month. The second month, he said sales were bad, so next month. The third month, he said he lent it to a friend, so next month.

Eventually, I stopped waiting.

Of the six hundred thousand down payment, I paid five hundred twenty thousand myself, and my mother gave me eighty thousand.

He didn't contribute a single cent.

In early 2019, the property deed was issued.

Three months later, we registered our marriage.

We didn't have a wedding. He said we should save up first, then have one when we had money.

Five years passed. No wedding. No savings.

It wasn't that he couldn't earn money.

It was that his money never came into the household.

In five years of marriage, I never saw Ray's salary card.

I asked once, and he said, "Why do you need to know so much? Haven't I paid the living expenses every month?"

Living expenses.

Two thousand per month.

I calculated that over five years, he had transferred less than eighty thousand to the household in total.

And two thousand of that was a New Year's gift to his mother, deducted from money I had transferred to him.

What about me?

The monthly mortgage was six thousand eight hundred, which over five years totaled four hundred eight thousand.

Property management fees, utilities, gas, about one thousand two hundred per month.

Groceries, household essentials, around two thousand per month.

His cigarette money, three hundred per month. Yes, his cigarette money came from household funds.

Gifts for relatives during holidays were mostly paid by me.

Over five years, how much money did I invest in this home?

I hadn't calculated the exact figure.

Because it would make me cry.

But I estimated roughly, at least one point two million.

Down payment: six hundred thousand. Mortgage: four hundred thousand. Living expenses: two hundred thousand.

One point two million.

And him?

Eighty thousand.

And two thousand of that was my money.

So, sixty thousand.

One point two million versus sixty thousand.

Twenty to one.

This was our marriage.

3.

After discovering that phone, I did something.

I didn't storm out. I didn't cry. I didn't shake him awake in the middle of the night to confront him.

I took photos.

Every page of chat history, every transfer screenshot, every ambiguous message.

All of it screenshotted and sent to my own email.

Then I put the phone back in its original position, wiping off my fingerprints.

The next morning, he made breakfast again.

Fried eggs, toast, a cup of hot milk.

"Why are you up so early today?" he asked.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Is work stress getting to you lately?" he handed me the milk. "Why don't you just quit? I'll support you."

You'll support me.

On eight thousand a month, you'll support me.

I almost burst out laughing.

"No need." I took the milk and drank a sip. "By the way, about selling the house, I've thought about it."

His eyes immediately lit up.

"You think it's a good idea?"

"It's a good idea, but I need to understand the process first. Do you know how long it takes to list a property these days?"

"I asked the agent," he said quickly. "It can close in as little as a month. This area is a school district now, so it's in high demand."

A month.

He was even more eager than I was.

"Alright, then you go ahead and contact the agent," I said.

"Great!" he stood up. "I'll call now."

Watching his excited back, I slowly finished my milk.

What he didn't know was that I had already consulted a lawyer yesterday.

The lawyer, Ms. Fang, was recommended by my university roommate and specialized in family law.

I explained the situation to her. She asked me three questions:

"When was the house bought?"

"2018."

"When did you register your marriage?"

"June 2019."

"When was the property deed issued?"

"March 2019."

Ms. Fang was silent for two seconds.

"Ms. Lin, your apartment is your pre-marital personal property. The property deed was processed before you registered your marriage, and it's in your name alone, correct?"

"Correct."

"Who paid the down payment?"

"Myself. My mother lent me eighty thousand, but that was also a personal gift to me."

"And the loan?"

"I paid it myself for about a year before marriage, and the monthly payments after marriage were also deducted from my salary card."

"Did he ever transfer money to your salary card, specifically for mortgage payments?"

"No."

"Then for the mortgage payments made after marriage, if it goes to court, he might claim a share. But as long as you can prove that all the mortgage funds came from your personal income"

"I have bank statements."

"Then it's very clear," Ms. Fang said. "Pre-marital personal property, property deed acquired before marriage, down payment made before marriage, and the loan primarily repaid by you personally. Even if it goes to court, the portion he can claim will be very limited. Moreover, he is at fault."

"What fault?"

"Adultery. Do you have evidence?"

"Yes."

"Then it's even simpler. If a spouse cohabits with another person, the innocent party can claim damages during divorce. "

"How much compensation can there be?"

"The amount won't be very high. But more importantly, the at-fault party will receive less or no property in the division."

I hung up the phone.

I sat there for a long time.

Then I opened the notes app on my phone and made a list:

1. Evidence of infidelity C screenshots already exist, more needed to supplement.

2. Original property deed C in my possession.

3. Purchase contract C signed before marriage, in my possession.

4. Mortgage payment records C all deducted from my salary card, bank statements can be obtained.

5. Proof of his financial contribution C none. Because he never contributed.

I looked at the list.

Five years.

One point two million.

He hadn't paid a single cent towards buying the house, hadn't made a single mortgage payment, hadn't paid a single property management fee.

Now he wanted to sell my house, cash out three point five million, take half, and go off with his "strawberry."

I closed the notes app.

No rush.

Let him enjoy himself for a few more days.

4.

Over the next two weeks, I began to pay attention to everything he did.

Not in a sneaky way. It was a calm, purposeful observation.

His second phone only came out after eleven p.m. every night.

He thought I was asleep.

But I wasn't.

I closed my eyes, listening to him type under the covers. The tap of his fingers on the screen was light, but in the quiet bedroom, I heard every single one.

Sometimes he would chuckle softly.

Very quietly.

But I heard it.

What were he and she laughing about?

I didn't want to know.

I just waited until he was asleep each night, picked up that phone, and continued taking screenshots.

In two weeks, I saved over one hundred sixty screenshots.

Chat histories, transfer records, hotel check-in records.

He had sent her red envelopes. Five hundred twenty, one thousand three hundred fourteen, and one for eight thousand eight hundred eighty-eight.

In just six months, he had transferred fifty-three thousand four hundred to her.

Fifty-three thousand.

He gave the household two thousand a month. To her, fifty-three thousand in six months.

Two thousand multiplied by six months is twelve thousand.

Twelve thousand versus fifty-three thousand.

The money he gave to his mistress was four and a half times what he gave to our home.

I also discovered some other things.

He rented a room outside.

Monthly rent three thousand five hundred.

Three months' rent upfront, plus one month's deposit. The first payment was fourteen thousand.

When was this money paid? Three months ago.

Meaning, three months ago, he already had another "home" outside.

And three months ago

That's when he started bringing up selling the house.

All the pieces fell into place.

He wanted to sell the house, not to get a bigger one.

It was to cash out.

He thought the house was marital joint propertyafter all, we moved in after we got married. He thought if it sold for three point five million, he could at least get half.

One point seven five million.

Taking one point seven five million to live happily ever after with his "strawberry."

And me?

The one point eight million house was bought by me. The down payment was mine. The mortgage was paid by me. He didn't contribute a single cent.

In the end, he wanted to take one point seven five million.

One point seven five million.

Enough for him and that woman to live on for several years.

I sat in the living room, staring out the window for a long time.

Then I picked up my phone and sent a message to Ms. Fang:

"Ms. Fang, all the materials are ready. We can file the case anytime."

She replied with one word: "Good."

I sent another message: "I want to wait for him to list the house first."

"Why?"

"I want to see how far he's willing to go."

Ms. Fang sent an ellipsis, then said, "Alright, you set the pace. But don't drag it out too long."

I said okay.

It wouldn't be too long.

Because I had already waited five years.

A few more days wouldn't make a difference.