When I started Suspecting my Wife of Cheating, I Somehow Ended up Living in the Middle of Nowhere - Episode 17

I had come to Fukuoka City to meet my ex-wife. As usual, I visited Fudō Myō-ō Temple in the morning to pray before coming here.

The place she picked was a restaurant located underground in a large building in Tenjin. They served lunch, but at around 3,000 yen per person, it wasn’t the kind of place where regular office workers would casually drop by. It seemed more like a restaurant used for business lunches. Although it wasn’t a private room, the booths were separated so that you couldn’t see the other customers’ faces. It had a calm atmosphere, and even the servers wore kimonos.

It was obvious I had never been to a place like this before. I felt a mix of emotions, wondering if my ex-wife was enjoying lunches like this with her new husband—some bitterness, but also a bit of relief that she seemed to be doing well. My emotions weren’t simple “black” or “white,” but like multiple colors swirling and mixing continuously. If I could’ve described it properly in words, maybe I’d have become a great novelist.

“What is this place?” I asked, putting on a slightly sour face. It would probably please her to see me frustrated. And if she felt good, maybe she’d be more agreeable to my requests.

“You’d never think of coming to a place like this, right? Well, I can come whenever I want now!” she said.

Yeah, yeah, whatever. When was the last time we went out for lunch together? Back when I was working in medical device sales, I was on call 24/7, always ready for emergencies. Even though I kept some frequently used supplies in my company car, I often had to rush to the warehouse to pick something up and deliver it to a hospital, with barely any time to rest.

If I had to leave during a meal, my wife would’ve been furious. Knowing that, I avoided eating out altogether—not just for lunch but dinner too.

“So, about the girls—” I began.

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted with a half-smile. “Let’s talk after we eat.”

She was so composed. Meanwhile, I had plans to visit my mother in the hospital afterward. It would take over an hour by car to get back to the village, and I also wanted to stop by the hardware store before heading home!

A beautifully arranged meal was served in a fancy bento box, with many small dishes, each just a mouthful. Delicious, sure, but I wanted to stuff my mouth full.

“This would go well with sake,” she commented while eating a piece of saikyo-yaki fish.

“What’s this thing that looks like a pine cone?” I asked.

“Idiot. It’s carved to look like a pine cone. It’s actually kuwai.”

Kuwai? I’d never even seen that at a supermarket. It didn’t taste particularly good either.

I probably could’ve eaten the whole meal in a tenth of the time if I hadn’t been trying to keep her in a good mood, chewing everything like fifty times. If I’d always eaten like this, maybe my belly wouldn’t have grown so much.

“So, about the girls…” I said again.

“Yeah…” she finally responded.

It had been about an hour since we arrived. Finally, we got to the main topic.

“No way. I’m not giving up custody. If you want it, go ahead and take me to court. You know Japanese courts favor women about 70% of the time, right?”

As expected, she refused. I couldn’t remember her ever agreeing to something on the first ask. I let her rant for about ten more minutes before calmly saying:

“I heard your new husband has been violent toward our daughters.”

At that, she exploded again, screeching for another ten minutes. I wished more than ever for a fast-forward button for life.

“I have proof,” I said firmly. “I’m prepared to go through a lawyer and take this to court. I’ll forgive anything else, but I won’t forgive anything that hurts our daughters. I’ll fight to the end and make sure there are consequences.”

She seemed a little shaken when I said it seriously. In reality, I had no proof—it was a total bluff. My heart was pounding, but thinking about my daughters gave me strength.

“I’ll have my lawyer contact you!” she shouted before storming out… of course, without paying the bill.

Two lunches—6,000 yen… I could’ve bought five or six sheets of drywall with that… Why does the poorer one always have to pay?

Mother’s Update

My mother’s surgery had gone well. Since she was probably feeling anxious about being hospitalized, I visited her two to three times a week, even though it was over an hour each way. Today, since I had plans to meet my ex-wife, I stopped by the hospital on the way.

Since her spine had been fixed with metal and bolts, there was now a slight bulge on her back. The friction against clothes and the bed had caused something called shitsujun (moist dermatitis), which looked painful, but she didn’t seem bothered by it.

“How old are you now, Mom?” I asked.

“Sixty-five,” she said.

It was sad that she spoke to me in honorific language. Even sadder that my seventy-five-year-old mother thought she was sixty-five.

Her dementia seemed to be progressing. Every time I asked, she gave a different answer—sometimes 64, sometimes 67—but rarely over 70. Seeing my parent like this broke my heart.

She had spent decades living with my father, only to be abused and hospitalized when she needed care, and he even took her living expenses. Thinking about her life made me unbearably sad.

“Mom, do you know who I am?” I asked.

“Of course. You’re Mr. Seiji.”

Seiji was my father’s name.

Because of her dementia, her memories from the last five to ten years were fuzzy. She could still state names clearly, which had helped when opening a bank account recently.

It seemed the abuse from my father had started within the last two or three years—or maybe even earlier without me realizing. Meaning she barely remembered the abuse.

Taking her away from my father was the right thing to do to protect her safety. But if she didn’t even remember the abuse, what would she say if I asked her if she wanted to see him again? I was too scared to ask.

Her wishes couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t know what was real anymore. Was what I was doing really making her happy? That question haunted me.

While I was crying secretly in the hospital hallway, a friendly nurse shared some insider information with me. Apparently, when my father visited, he brought a voice recorder and kept trying to make my mother say, “I want to go home.” He forced her to redo it many times, and when she finally shouted, “I don’t want to go home!” he yelled, “Say you want to go home!”

Hearing that made me understand why the hospital trusted me over my father, even though I visited less often. That, and other incidents like it, led the hospital to request a visitation ban on my father.

If only they had told me earlier, I would have immediately agreed to ban him from visiting.

Kiyomi Zenpuku’s Monologue

Today was the day I would see him again after a long time. I went to the salon in the morning and got my hair done perfectly. I even wore a new outfit, one that showed a little cleavage. I wanted him to say, “You look amazing!” or “I regret leaving you!”

But when we met, he didn’t say anything about my hair or my outfit. The only thing he talked about was the kids.

I made him have lunch first just to mess with him. I kept glancing at him—maybe he was looking at me?

I wanted to show him how my life had upgraded. But he barely reacted to the food, clearly thinking only about the girls.

When he started criticizing me and my new husband, I lost it. Not even one compliment!

I swear, one day I’ll make him cry and beg for forgiveness!