Chen Xiaoman’s message contained a photograph.
She was standing in front of Hemei Hospital’s VIP lounge, one hand resting on her belly.
Below it she had written:
“Sister Luo, Zhiyuan said you used this hospital when you were pregnant too. He told me your membership still has plenty of money, so we might as well use it instead of wasting it.”
I stared at the message.
Then another arrived.
“Don’t misunderstand. He said the card belongs to both of you because he deposited money into it during your marriage.”
I almost laughed.
That was the interesting part.
Zhou Zhiyuan had deposited money.
But after our divorce, the remaining balance had been specifically assigned to me in the property settlement.
The card was legally mine.
Apparently, he’d forgotten.
I replied with only four words.
“Enjoy your appointment tomorrow.”
The following afternoon, Zhou Zhiyuan arrived at Hemei Hospital looking extremely confident.
I knew because my college friend Lin Yue happened to work in administration there.
She didn’t tell me any private medical information.
She merely sent:
“Your ex is downstairs arguing about your membership card.”
I could imagine the scene perfectly.
Later, Zhou Zhiyuan himself told me the rest while shouting over the phone.
At reception, he’d handed over the card.
The nurse verified the reservation.
Then she asked for the new password.
He entered An An’s birthday.
Incorrect.
He tried again.
Incorrect.
His expression changed.
“Maybe I typed it wrong.”
The nurse politely asked him to retry.
Failed.
Finally she said:
“Sir, this card now requires verification from the registered holder.”
Zhou Zhiyuan frowned.
“I’m her husband.”
“According to the account, Mrs. Luo is the cardholder.”
“Ex-husband,” Chen Xiaoman corrected quietly.
Apparently that didn’t improve matters.
The nurse requested authorization.
A verification message appeared on my phone.
9,860 yuan.
I pressed:
DECLINE.
Zhou Zhiyuan called immediately.
“Luo Qing!”
I held the phone away from my ear.
“What?”
“Why did you change the password?”
“My card. My password.”
“That money was deposited while we were married!”
“And the remaining balance was awarded to me in our divorce settlement.”
Silence.
“You knew I booked Xiaoman’s examination.”
“Yes.”
“And you deliberately waited until today?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to embarrass us!”
“No.”
I smiled.
“I wanted you to pay your own bill.”
He hung up.
Five minutes later another authorization appeared.
4,200 yuan.
Decline.
Then:
2,680 yuan.
Decline.
Then:
1,300 yuan.
Decline.
Apparently he was removing services one by one.
Finally there were no more requests.
I assumed he’d found his wallet.
I was wrong.
Twenty minutes later, he called again.
His voice had lost all arrogance.
“Can you transfer me ten thousand?”
I actually checked whether I’d read the caller ID correctly.
“Why?”
“My credit card isn’t going through.”
“And?”
“Xiaoman is already here.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“Luo Qing, don’t be childish.”
“I’m not the one standing inside a private hospital trying to pay with my ex-wife’s money.”
He went silent.
Then I heard Chen Xiaoman in the background.
“You said you’d already paid!”
The call ended.
I laughed for the first time all day.
But the real problem began that evening.
Zhou Zhiyuan arrived at my apartment.
“Give me the card.”
“No.”
“There was eighty thousand in it!”
“There still is.”
“Part of that money was mine.”
I took out our divorce agreement.
Section twelve.
Hemei Hospital prepaid membership account ending 7209:
Assigned exclusively to Luo Qing for future healthcare expenses of Luo Qing and minor daughter Zhou An’an.
I pointed at his signature.
“Recognize it?”
His face darkened.
“You tricked me during the divorce.”
“You had an attorney.”
He couldn’t answer.
Then An An walked out of her bedroom.
“Dad?”
His anger disappeared immediately.
I lowered my voice.
“Don’t argue in front of her.”
For once, he listened.
He left.
The next morning, however, I discovered he’d posted online.
He didn’t mention stealing the card.
Instead he wrote that his “bitter ex-wife” had deliberately interfered with his pregnant partner’s medical appointment.
Several friends criticized me.
I ignored them.
Then Chen Xiaoman posted something worse.
“Some women cannot accept that their former husband has moved on.”
Attached was the princess dress An An had refused.
That crossed a line.
Not because of me.
Because she’d dragged my daughter into an adult conflict.
I posted one screenshot.
Nothing emotional.
Just the relevant section of the divorce settlement showing ownership of the card.
Then one sentence:
“Please stop involving my daughter in disputes concerning property that legally belongs to her and me.”
I turned off my phone.
By evening, their posts had disappeared.
Two months passed.
I thought the matter was finished.
Then Hemei Hospital called.
“Mrs. Luo, we’re reviewing historical transactions associated with your membership. Could you confirm several charges?”
My stomach tightened.
“What charges?”
There had been appointments I didn’t recognize.
Not just Chen Xiaoman’s.
Three transactions from almost two years earlier.
All during my marriage.
Total:
36,400 yuan.
“What were they for?”
The employee paused.
“Because they concern another patient’s medical services, we cannot disclose private medical details. But we need to verify whether you authorized use of your prepaid account.”
“I didn’t.”
That was enough.
The hospital opened an account-security review.
I confronted Zhou Zhiyuan.
He became defensive immediately.
“Why are you digging into old transactions?”
“Because thirty-six thousand yuan disappeared from my account.”
“It was family money.”
“For whose medical care?”
He refused to answer.
Then I understood.
“Xiaoman?”
His silence confirmed it.
My hands went cold.
“How long?”
“Don’t start.”
“How long were you paying her medical expenses with my card?”
“Before the divorce, the money belonged to both of us!”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked away.
Finally:
“About a year.”
I laughed softly.
We’d divorced eight months earlier.
So his relationship with Chen Xiaoman hadn’t begun after our marriage ended.
When I asked Xiaoman directly, she denied knowing the card was mine.
And surprisingly, I believed that part.
Zhou Zhiyuan had told her it was a corporate healthcare account.
But she revealed something else.
“He said you two had already separated emotionally.”
Classic.
“When?”
She gave me the date.
I remembered that month perfectly.
An An had pneumonia.
I spent four nights caring for her.
Zhou Zhiyuan claimed he was away on business.
Apparently his “business trip” had included Chen Xiaoman.
Whatever remained of my respect for him disappeared.
I didn’t fight over their relationship.
That marriage was already finished.
But I requested a formal accounting of the unauthorized card transactions and other expenses covered by our divorce agreement.
Suddenly Zhou Zhiyuan became cooperative.
He repaid the disputed membership charges.
Then he asked:
“Can we stop now?”
I looked at him.
“I’m not doing anything to you.”
“You’re checking everything.”
“Yes.”
“That feels like revenge.”
“No.”
I closed the folder.
“It feels like accounting.”
Then the accounting uncovered something neither of us expected.
For five years, Zhou Zhiyuan had been transferring 3,000 yuan monthly into an investment account.
He’d never disclosed it during our divorce.
By itself, that was already a problem.
But the account wasn’t registered to him.
It belonged to his mother.
When questioned, he admitted he’d been hiding marital assets.
“Mom was holding the money for me.”
“How much?”
He refused to answer.
The financial records answered instead.
More than 600,000 yuan.
Suddenly, eighty thousand on a hospital card looked insignificant.
My attorney reopened the financial settlement through the appropriate legal process.
Zhou Zhiyuan blamed Chen Xiaoman.
Then his mother.
Then me.
Eventually, there was nobody left to blame except himself.
His hidden funds became part of the dispute.
An An’s support arrangements were reviewed.
And I made one condition non-negotiable:
Whatever happened between adults, our daughter would not be used as messenger, bargaining chip or social-media content.
To my surprise, Xiaoman agreed.
She deleted every photograph containing An An.
That was the first sensible thing either of them had done.
Six months later, I saw Zhou Zhiyuan at An An’s school performance.
He sat three seats away.
No argument.
No girlfriend drama.
No money discussion.
When An An walked onto the stage, she looked at both of us and smiled.
That was enough.
Afterward, Zhou Zhiyuan stopped me.
“I repaid the hospital account.”
“I know.”
He hesitated.
“I was terrible with you.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to agree that quickly.”
“I don’t have to protect your feelings anymore.”
He almost smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“There is something else you should know.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The hidden account wasn’t originally my idea.”
I frowned.
“My mother opened it.”
“That doesn’t improve things.”
“No.”
He lowered his voice.
“But she didn’t open it to hide money from you.”
He handed me an envelope.
Inside was an old bank statement.
The account had existed before our marriage.
And the first deposit wasn’t from Zhou Zhiyuan.
It was from my father.
My father had died six years earlier.
I stared at the paper.
“Why would my father send money to your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
There were twenty-seven transfers.
All before our wedding.
Then I saw the reference attached to the final payment:
FOR AN AN.
My heart stopped.
“That isn’t possible.”
An An hadn’t been born yet.
In fact, when that transfer was made, Zhou Zhiyuan and I had only been dating for four months.
I looked at him.
“Why did my father know our daughter’s name?”
His face was pale.
“That’s why I’m giving this to you.”
There was another document in the envelope.
A contract.
My father and Zhou Zhiyuan’s mother had signed it five years before our wedding.
It concerned a medical investment fund.
And Hemei Maternity Hospital.
My VIP card hadn’t been an ordinary membership account at all.
It had been created under a family-beneficiary program connected to that investment.
At the bottom was a handwritten instruction from my father:
“When Luo Qing has her first child, transfer the beneficiary rights to the child.”
I stared at the date.
Then at the hospital logo.
For years, Zhou Zhiyuan had treated the card like forgotten prepaid money.
But the 80,000-yuan balance wasn’t what mattered.
The membership number was attached to beneficiary rights in the company that owned Hemei Hospital.
And according to the final page, those rights had already transferred.
Not to me.
To An An.
The daughter whose 480-yuan school uniform Zhou Zhiyuan once said was too expensive was quietly holding an inheritance neither of us had known existed.
And someone had been withdrawing money from the related investment account since before she was born.
