My mind wandered back to my mother's final moments—her pain and helplessness.
Despite the scorching sun outside, my heart grew colder and colder.
Quietly, I opened my cloud storage and began organizing the evidence I had collected over the years of my father's affair.
Every time I saw these photos proving their happiness and joy, it used to tear my heart apart.
But now, all I felt was indifference.
I had to thank the mistress' son.
His foolishness led him to accept a fake account I created using a seductive profile picture.
Through his social media, I learned that my father wasn't incapable of being a good husband or father.
He remembered every birthday of the mistress and her son, always buying them the most expensive gifts.
But he never remembered my or my mother's birthdays, always claiming to be too busy—so busy that he didn't even send a single greeting.
Yet, my mother still gladly took care of everything for him.
She always said, "Your father is just momentarily confused. He'll eventually realize who he should truly cherish."
But I knew better. If he knew how to cherish, could he stand by and watch his wife drink herself to a stomach ulcer just for work?
If he knew how to cherish, could he forget every one of his wife's and child's birthdays?
If he knew how to cherish, could he shamelessly use the hard-earned money we worked for to support a mistress?
He was a small-time manager at a state-owned enterprise, with no real power and only a 4,000 dollars monthly salary. But the way he carried himself, you'd think he earned 400,000 a month!
He always manipulated my mother, telling her, "Go ahead and chase your dreams, I'm your solid support."
Ha! A 4,000 dollars support—was that enough to buy the mistress a handbag?
Thinking about it, I truly felt it wasn't worth it for my mom.
I called the lawyer and sent over the evidence and my mother's will.
First, I had to make sure there were no mistakes when dividing the assets.
My mother was gone. I couldn't let them get their hands on the money too.
After receiving my mom's death certificate, I immediately went to the bank to cancel her credit card.
Just as I stepped out of the bank, my mom's phone rang in my bag.
I pulled it out, and the caller ID said: "Husband."
I pressed answer, and on the other end came an aggressive barrage of questions.
"Why did you stop my card?"