When my husband confronted me about not cooking while I had a 40°C fever, I signed the divorce papers. My mother-in-law yelled that I would stop begging on the streets, but my one response stunned her…

"Why isn't the rice ready? Why didn't you cook it?" I tried to get up, whispering weakly:

"I... have a fever. I can't make it today. Just tonight, I'll make up for it tomorrow."

But anger flashed in his eyes. “So what if a woman can’t even cook a pot of rice?” he growled, before his hand struck my cheek with the force of a thunderbolt.

My face burned, tears flowing uncontrollably. I didn't know if it was from the sting or the humiliation. I tried to protest, "Hung... I really feel sick..." but he didn't care. He stormed into the bedroom, slammed the door, and left me trembling on the couch.

That night, delirious with fever, I realized the truth: the man I called my husband never loved me. He never saw me as a partner, only as a servant.

In the morning, I knew I couldn't handle it. With trembling hands but a strangely calm heart, I filled out the divorce papers and signed my name. Walking into the living room, I said dispassionately:

"Hung, I want a divorce. I can't live like this anymore."

Before Hung could answer, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Lanh, rushed out of the kitchen, her voice booming:

"Divorce? Who are you trying to scare? This house is not a place you can just walk out of!"

She pointed at me and started screaming louder:

"If you leave, you'll end up begging on the streets. No one will want a useless wife like you!"

It was another slap in the face, but this time it didn't hurt. I straightened up, looked her in the eyes, and calmly replied:

"Begging on the streets would still be better than living in this house without dignity. At least the beggars are free. I'd rather beg than be the shadow of your family."