It was already 11 p.m.
When I stepped out of the taxi, the smell of alcohol clung to every breath I took. The meeting with my clients had been successful, so my mood was high. But beneath that satisfaction lay a dark desire I had long hidden behind a respectable image—Huệ, the new housemaid, just over twenty years old, from the countryside, hired by my wife only two months ago.
Huệ was young and fresh, like a flower just beginning to bloom. Even when she wore nothing more than a simple house dress, her curves were impossible to hide, and more than once my knees had weakened just from looking at her.
Lan—my wife—was different now. After two pregnancies, her body had changed, her skin had darkened, and she spent her days entirely devoted to the house and the children. The monotony of married life, combined with the “temptation” inside my own home, had pushed me to the brink of betrayal many times.
When I entered the house, it was dark except for the kitchen light. I was about to head straight to the bedroom when I froze. In the faint glow near the minibar stood a figure with her back to me, pouring water.
She wasn’t wearing the old house clothes.
She was dressed in a red silk nightgown—the seductive one I had bought for Lan on our anniversary, which she had never worn because it was “too revealing.”
And her legs…
The short, thin fabric revealed long, pale legs that shone softly in the dim light. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The posture, the youth—this wasn’t Lan.
“Huệ…” her name flashed through my mind.
I immediately imagined a scenario: maybe she had noticed my attention, maybe she had taken advantage of my wife sleeping upstairs, worn her clothes, and sent me a “signal.” The alcohol clouded my judgment and desire overwhelmed what little conscience I had left. I forgot entirely that my wife was upstairs.
I approached slowly, breathing hard. She didn’t turn—whether she didn’t notice me or pretended not to, I didn’t care. When I was close enough, I touched her lightly from behind. She gave a small movement but didn’t resist.
That only confirmed what I believed.
I leaned closer and whispered, feeling the heat of alcohol on my breath:
“You’re hiding this? You sleep dressed like this? You really want to impress the boss, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tonight.”
She remained silent, trembling slightly. I assumed it was shyness. Without thinking further, I turned her toward me, though her face was still buried against my chest, and carried her quickly into the guest room on the first floor.
I laid her on the bed. The darkness made me feel bolder. I kissed her, feeling the warmth of her body.
My hand slipped under the thin fabric, moving upward. I wanted to feel the smoothness of her skin. But then…
When my hand reached her lower abdomen, I froze.
Instead of smooth skin, I felt scars. A long scar beneath the chest. Around it, soft skin with stretch marks.
That sensation… why was it familiar?
This scar—a cesarean scar from when our son Bin was born due to placenta previa. The stretch marks from two pregnancies. Skin torn and never fully healed, no matter how much cream was used.
“Oh my God…”
I pulled my hand back as if burned. The alcohol vanished from my head instantly.
Click.
The lamp turned on.
I opened my eyes.
It wasn’t Huệ.
It was Lan.
My wife.
But she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t screaming. She knelt there without expression, tears slipping silently from the corners of her eyes as she stared at the ceiling—empty, broken.
“So… why did you stop?” she asked softly, her voice fragile like glass. “Were you looking for the Scarlet Witch? I’m sorry… this is all I have—scars.”
I collapsed onto the floor.
“And… why… how—”
She sat up and pulled the fabric over the scars I had just touched.
“This afternoon, I saw the email you wrote to the editor. I noticed how you’ve been looking at Huệ. So for three days, I brought her home early. Tonight, I wore the nightgown you bought me five years ago—the one I was too ashamed to wear because of this marked belly. I turned off the lights. I waited for you. It was a gamble. I hoped you would recognize your wife… or at least ask, ‘Who is this?’ But you didn’t. You froze. You said her name. You praised her skin.”
She smiled—a bitter, sideways smile.
“In your eyes, I’m just old now. And these scars—the price of blood I paid to give you children—are the reason you lost your desire, aren’t they?”
“No! Lan, I was wrong! I was drunk—”
I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
She stood and took a piece of paper from the dresser—already signed.
“It wasn’t the alcohol. It only revealed who you truly are. You wanted the skin of a twenty-year-old, but what you touched was the sacrifice of a forty-year-old wife. That ‘shock’ you felt—deeper than any slap.”
She threw the paper in front of me.
“Sign it. You’re free. Starting tomorrow, you can bring Huệ here—or any woman with long legs. No ugly scars to disturb your appetite.”
She left the room, leaving me alone in the cold silence.
I stared at the divorce papers. Then at my hands—the hands that had committed an irreversible betrayal. I could still feel the scars. They weren’t ugly. They were medals. Proof of a mother’s sacrifice that I had destroyed.
I sat there until morning.
And I knew—our family’s dawn had ended the moment my hand slid into the truth beneath that nightgown.
Don’t let desire blind your conscience. Youth fades. But sacrifice and loyal love—that is real life. Sometimes, one wrong touch is enough to destroy everything.