It was 11 o’clock at night. As soon as I stepped out of the taxi, the sharp scent of alcohol filled my senses. I had just finished a very successful client meeting and felt euphoric. But beneath that elation, a dark desire I had long hidden behind a respectable façade stirred—Huệ, the new housekeeper in her 20s from the province, whom my husband had employed only two months ago.
Huệ, fresh and youthful, was like a flower just blooming. Even in her simple daster, the curves I had noticed before were impossible to ignore—curves that had made my knees weak more than once. Lan, my wife, was different. After two pregnancies, her body had changed, her skin darkened, and her days were consumed by housework and the children. The monotony of married life, combined with the “temptation” within my own home, had pushed me to the edge of error many times.
When I entered the house, it was dark, with only the kitchen light on. I intended to go straight to the bedroom, but I froze. Under the dim minibar light, a figure was bent over, pouring water. It wasn’t the old, loose lady. She wore a silky red nightgown—the sensual dress I had bought for Lan for our anniversary, one she had never worn because it was “too revealing.”
And her legs…
The short, thin fabric revealed long, pale legs, lit by the soft glow. Her black hair was tied in a ponytail. The stance, the youth—it wasn’t Lan.
“Huệ…” The name popped into my mind unbidden.
Immediately, my imagination ran wild: perhaps he had been paying attention to me—our rich, well-dressed selves. Maybe he had taken advantage of his mistress’s sleep, put on her clothes, and left a “signal.” The warmth of wine clouded my judgment, and desire swallowed my conscience. I forgot about my wife upstairs.
I walked slowly, taking steady breaths. She didn’t notice—or perhaps pretended not to. A few steps away, I could no longer resist. I grabbed her from behind. “And…” He barely nodded, unmoving.
It confirmed my assumption—I had been right.
I leaned close, whispering, the heat of the wine in my words:
“You’re hiding it. Are you going to sleep like this? You really want to impress the boss, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tonight.”
He stayed silent, trembling slightly. I assumed it was nerves or a sore throat. I didn’t waste another moment. I pulled him to me, but his face remained buried in my chest. I carried him quickly to the guest room on the first floor.
I laid her on the soft bed. The darkness of the room gave me confidence. I kissed her; her warmth was intoxicating.
“Your Excellency… Your scent…” I whispered, hands trembling.
My hand slid under the thin nightgown, reaching upward to feel her skin. But…
When my hand rested on her lower abdomen, I froze. Instead of soft, flawless skin, I encountered deep scars. A long scar beneath the heart, surrounded by soft, marked skin and stretch marks.
That feeling… Why did it feel so familiar? The scar—from a cesarean when Bin was born, complicated by placenta previa. Stretch marks from two pregnancies, skin torn and never fully restored.
“Oh my God…” I yanked my hand back as if burned. The intoxication vanished. “Click!” The lampshade flickered. I blinked…
Not Huệ.
Lan.
My wife.
But she didn’t look at me with anger or cry. She was on her knees, expressionless, tears at the corners of her eyes, staring at the ceiling—devastated, hollow.
“What, why did you stop?” she asked softly, voice rasping like glass. “Were you looking for Huệ? I’m sorry… all I have are scars.”
I sank to the floor. “And… why… how—”
She sat down, tugging the nightgown over the scar I had touched—the scar that had made me stop.
“That afternoon, you wrote a letter to the editor. I noticed your obsession with Huệ. I wore the nightgown you bought five years ago but never dared wear because of my scarred belly. I turned off the light. I was waiting for you. It was my gamble. I hoped you would see your wife—or at least ask, ‘Who is this?’ But… you were stunned. You called her name. Complimented her skin.”
Lan’s bitter, sideways smile cut deep.
“In your eyes, I’m just an old woman. And these scars—marks of my blood giving you children—that’s why you lost appetite for me, isn’t it?”
“No! Lan, I was wrong! I’m just drunk—”
I dropped to my knees, reaching for her hand, but she avoided it.
She rose, took a signed piece of paper from the dresser.
“It’s not the wine. It’s the truth. You wanted the skin of a twenty-year-old, but what you touched was the sacrifice of your forty-year-old wife. That sting you felt—like a knife—is sharper than any slap.”
She placed the paper before me.
“Sign it. You’re free. From tomorrow, bring Huệ—or any long-legged woman—here. Nothing will diminish your appetite because of this ‘ugly scar.’”
She left, and I was alone in the cold room.
I stared at the divorce paper, then at my hands—the ones that committed an irreparable sin. I could still feel the scar I had touched. It wasn’t ugly—it was a mother’s medal, a sacrifice I had tried to ruin.
That night, I sat alone until morning, knowing our family’s day had been darkened the moment my hand strayed.
Do not let desire blind your judgment. Youth fades, but sacrifice and loyal love endure. Sometimes, one wrong touch is enough to ruin an entire life.