I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the shopping list my mother-in-law had left behind.
Sea cucumbers.
Dried mushrooms.
Premium tea.
Her favorite medicinal wine.
A specific brand of supplements for her back.
And at the bottom, written in large letters:
“Don’t forget to buy everything before we return.”

I laughed quietly.

Even after leaving me alone on our honeymoon, they still expected me to shop for them.

I folded the list and placed it back on the table.

Then I walked into the bedroom.

Our wedding photograph was hanging above the bed.

Pichaya and I were smiling at the camera.

I remembered that day.

I remembered how he had held my hand and promised that after marriage, I would never have to face anything alone.

I had believed him.

Now I looked at that photograph and realized something painful.

I had never been alone because I lacked a husband.

I had been alone because I had married someone who never considered me his priority.

I changed clothes, made a cup of coffee, and opened my laptop.

The first thing I did was check our finances.

That was when I discovered something I had never seen before.

My personal savings account was almost untouched.

But our joint account had been drained.

Not completely.

Just enough to make me suspicious.

There were dozens of transfers over the previous year.

Small amounts at first.

Then larger ones.

All going toward a company I didn’t recognize.

I searched the company name.

My hands stopped moving.

It was registered under Pichaya’s name.

I kept digging.

The company owned a small property outside Bangkok.

Then I found the purchase agreement.

The down payment had been made eight months earlier.

The money came from our joint savings.

I stared at the document.

So that was where our house money had gone.

He had told me we were saving for our future children.

Meanwhile, he had quietly purchased property without telling me.

I called the bank.

The representative confirmed that several transfers had been authorized through the account.

Then she said something that made my stomach tighten.

“Ma’am, the account has three authorized users.”

“Three?”

“Yes. You, Mr. Pichaya, and Mrs. Suda.”

His mother.

Suddenly everything made sense.

The card.

The money.

The constant requests.

The way she always knew exactly how much we had.

The way Pichaya never seemed worried about expenses despite earning far less than I did.

I ended the call.

Then I sat there for several minutes.

I wasn’t crying.

I wasn’t even angry anymore.

I was calculating.

The next morning, Pichaya called from another number.

I ignored it.

Then another.

Then his sister sent me an email.

“Please stop being childish and come back.”

I deleted it.

By noon, my mother called.

“An argument during a honeymoon is normal,” she said.

“Come home when you calm down.”

“Mom, I am home.”

She went silent.

I continued.

“I mean my own home.”

There was another silence.

Then she asked carefully:

“Are you really thinking about divorcing him?”

“Yes.”

“Over one night?”

“No.”

I looked at the bank documents on my desk.

“Over everything.”

That afternoon, I contacted a lawyer.

By evening, I had frozen the joint account and removed the third-party authorization.

Then I discovered something even worse.

The property Pichaya had purchased wasn’t for his mother.

It wasn’t for his sister.

It wasn’t even intended to be our future family home.

The title showed two names.

Pichaya and Phiangdao.

His sister.

I read it three times.

Then I finally understood why she had been so comfortable ordering me around.

She wasn’t simply his spoiled little sister.

She was financially connected to him.

And apparently, the money they used to build their little private world had come from our marriage.

The next morning, Pichaya finally managed to reach me.

His voice was furious.

“What did you do to the account?”

“Protected my money.”

“You had no right!”

“I had every right.”

“You’re my wife!”

“Exactly.”

My voice remained calm.

“Which means you should have told me before using our money to buy property with your sister.”

Silence.

Then I heard Phiangdao shouting somewhere behind him.

Pichaya lowered his voice.

“Listen to me. It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it.”

He couldn’t.

“Come back to Chiang Mai,” he finally said.

“No.”

“We can discuss everything face-to-face.”

“No.”

“You’re destroying this marriage over money?”

I smiled.

“No, Pichaya.”

“You destroyed it when you decided your mother and sister deserved a honeymoon more than your wife did.”

He became quiet.

Then he said something I would remember forever.

“If you walk away now, don’t expect me to chase you.”

I looked at the wedding ring lying on my desk.

“I don’t need you to chase me.”

I ended the call.

Three days later, I filed for divorce.

Pichaya finally came to Bangkok.

This time, he came alone.

He stood outside my apartment for almost an hour before I opened the door.

He looked exhausted.

“I made a mistake.”

I looked at him.

“Which one?”

He swallowed.

“All of it.”

I didn’t respond.

He stepped closer.

“Mom thought you would be happy to have family with us.”

“Your mother told you to leave me on the couch.”

“I know.”

“Your sister treated me like a servant.”

“I know.”

“You used our savings to buy property with her.”

He lowered his head.

“I was going to explain.”

“When?”

He said nothing.

“After I had paid for everything?”

Still nothing.

Then he suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out my old wedding photograph.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

I looked at the picture.

“You already did.”

His eyes reddened.

“Praepilai, please.”

“No.”

I closed the door.

For the first time since our wedding, I felt completely free.

But the story didn’t end there.

Two weeks later, the bank contacted me again.

There had been another investigation into the property transaction.

The funds used for the down payment were not only from our joint account.

Part of the money had come from a separate account registered under Pichaya’s mother.

The source of that money?

A loan.

And the collateral was the property we had been living in.

Our marital home.

Pichaya had apparently used our house as security without telling me.

I immediately contacted my lawyer.

The divorce proceedings became much more complicated.

And much more damaging for Pichaya.

Because the documents proved that he had hidden assets, transferred marital funds, and used the family home as collateral.

His mother panicked.

His sister blamed him.

And the family that had once treated me like their personal servant suddenly began calling me every day.

“Please reconsider.”

“Let’s settle this privately.”

“Don’t involve the court.”

I ignored every call.

Then, one month later, I received a message from Phiangdao.

Only five words.

“You ruined our whole family.”

I stared at the screen.

Then I typed my response.

“No.”

“You did that yourselves.”

I blocked her.

Six months later, the divorce was finalized.

I recovered most of the money that had been taken from our joint account.

The property was sold.

The debt was settled.

And I moved into a small apartment near the river.

It wasn’t luxurious.

It wasn’t impressive.

But every room belonged to me.

No one left dirty socks on my sofa.

No one handed me shopping lists.

No one expected me to wake up early to serve breakfast to people who had never respected me.

One evening, I received an invitation to a wedding.

It was Pichaya’s.

I almost laughed when I saw the name of the bride.

Phiangdao had somehow convinced one of her wealthy acquaintances to marry her.

The ceremony was scheduled at the same hotel where Pichaya and I had celebrated our wedding reception.

I didn’t attend.

But two days later, an old friend sent me a video.

The wedding had been interrupted.

The groom had discovered the financial problems surrounding Phiangdao’s family.

The ceremony was canceled.

And Pichaya?

He had apparently lost his job after his employer learned about the property scandal.

His mother had moved back to her hometown.

The family home was gone.

The business was gone.

The money was gone.

Everything they had expected me to provide had disappeared the moment I stopped providing it.

I watched the video once.

Then I deleted it.

Because by then, none of it mattered.

A year after I left that honeymoon, I stood at the airport again.

This time, I wasn’t running away.

I was leaving for a trip I had planned entirely for myself.

As I waited to board, I opened my passport and smiled.

There was no wedding ring on my hand.

No husband waiting for me.

No mother-in-law demanding souvenirs.

No sister-in-law ordering me around.

Just me.

And for the first time in years, that was enough.

My phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number appeared.

“Praepilai, I finally understand what I lost.”

I read it.

Then I deleted it without replying.

The announcement for my flight began.

I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the gate.

Behind me was the life I had once thought I was supposed to protect.

Ahead of me was a life I had finally chosen for myself.

And this time, I wasn’t going to ask anyone for permission.