From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
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I worked through the night, secretly photographing evidence while my husband slept soundly in bed. Sleep was the last thing on my mind.
First, I checked on my daughter in the next room. She was curled into a tight ball, her sleep restless. I gently brushed her hair back and whispered, "Hang on, sweetheart. This nightmare won’t last much longer."
By the time my husband woke up, I had already made breakfast and scrubbed the house spotless. My mother-in-law prowled around like a vulture, searching for something—anything—to criticize, but came up empty. Frustrated, she took it out on me over breakfast, snapping at me for no reason.
My husband, smug from his last "victory," assumed he’d broken me completely. I played the part, smiling sweetly as I walked him downstairs to see him off to work. Neighbors who spotted us exchanged knowing smirks—some even cracked jokes about the "happy couple."
But not everyone was amused. A few judgmental onlookers glared as I held my husband’s arm, whispering among themselves. "Look at that shameless woman," one hissed. "Fresh out of the hospital, still bruised, and she’s clinging to him like some desperate fool. She probably deserved what she got."
My husband drove off to work, and I headed to the market, my mind racing.
Six months after my daughter was born, my mother-in-law started pressuring me for another child. I got pregnant again—but when the ultrasound at a shady back-alley clinic confirmed another girl, she demanded I abort it.
I refused. I wanted this baby, girl or not, and was willing to try for a third. But my husband and his mother had other plans. When I wouldn’t bend, they tricked me into drinking abortion drugs. I didn’t realize what had happened until it was too late.
That was when he first hit me—during my recovery. And after that, the violence only escalated.
I didn’t go straight to the police with the phone evidence. Too risky. Instead, I took a cab to a nearby law firm.
The lawyer flipped through the photos I’d taken from the domestic abuse group, his expression darkening. After a long silence, he looked at me with pity. "I can take your case," he said. "With this evidence, I can get you a divorce—and win."
But when I asked about helping the other women in the group, he shook his head. "Not much I can do. Even if reported, the cyber police might just shut the group down. These men hide behind fake names. And without the victims coming forward themselves, the most those bastards will get is a slap on the wrist."
I turned down his offer. Divorce wasn’t the answer—not yet.
I wouldn’t get custody. I hadn’t worked in over a year. And the last time I tried to leave, my husband swore he’d kill us both.
I wasn’t willing to gamble on whether he meant it.
So I had to handle this my own way.
I bought groceries, went home, and carefully prepared four dishes and a soup—just the way my husband liked them—for when he returned from work.
First, I checked on my daughter in the next room. She was curled into a tight ball, her sleep restless. I gently brushed her hair back and whispered, "Hang on, sweetheart. This nightmare won’t last much longer."
By the time my husband woke up, I had already made breakfast and scrubbed the house spotless. My mother-in-law prowled around like a vulture, searching for something—anything—to criticize, but came up empty. Frustrated, she took it out on me over breakfast, snapping at me for no reason.
My husband, smug from his last "victory," assumed he’d broken me completely. I played the part, smiling sweetly as I walked him downstairs to see him off to work. Neighbors who spotted us exchanged knowing smirks—some even cracked jokes about the "happy couple."
But not everyone was amused. A few judgmental onlookers glared as I held my husband’s arm, whispering among themselves. "Look at that shameless woman," one hissed. "Fresh out of the hospital, still bruised, and she’s clinging to him like some desperate fool. She probably deserved what she got."
My husband drove off to work, and I headed to the market, my mind racing.
Six months after my daughter was born, my mother-in-law started pressuring me for another child. I got pregnant again—but when the ultrasound at a shady back-alley clinic confirmed another girl, she demanded I abort it.
I refused. I wanted this baby, girl or not, and was willing to try for a third. But my husband and his mother had other plans. When I wouldn’t bend, they tricked me into drinking abortion drugs. I didn’t realize what had happened until it was too late.
That was when he first hit me—during my recovery. And after that, the violence only escalated.
I didn’t go straight to the police with the phone evidence. Too risky. Instead, I took a cab to a nearby law firm.
The lawyer flipped through the photos I’d taken from the domestic abuse group, his expression darkening. After a long silence, he looked at me with pity. "I can take your case," he said. "With this evidence, I can get you a divorce—and win."
But when I asked about helping the other women in the group, he shook his head. "Not much I can do. Even if reported, the cyber police might just shut the group down. These men hide behind fake names. And without the victims coming forward themselves, the most those bastards will get is a slap on the wrist."
I turned down his offer. Divorce wasn’t the answer—not yet.
I wouldn’t get custody. I hadn’t worked in over a year. And the last time I tried to leave, my husband swore he’d kill us both.
I wasn’t willing to gamble on whether he meant it.
So I had to handle this my own way.
I bought groceries, went home, and carefully prepared four dishes and a soup—just the way my husband liked them—for when he returned from work.
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.