When I started Suspecting my Wife of Cheating, I Somehow Ended up Living in the Middle of Nowhere - Episode 7

It had been a long time since I last saw my mother, and her white hair had noticeably increased. Her face was expressionless—so different from the always-smiling woman I remembered.

The biggest difference was the bruises all over her face. Clear signs of being hit.

Still, the woman in front of me was undoubtedly my mother. I thought to myself, “She’s aged quite a bit.” She must be 75 by now. I used to go home several times a year, but over the past one or two years, I’d been too busy to visit.

As for me, I had just gone through a divorce. My wife had lost patience with me, found someone new, and left. I was too embarrassed to even talk about it with my mother.

I hadn’t known about the domestic violence, hadn’t even noticed. I told the “care manager” in front of me that much.

“Nice to meet you. I’m your mother’s care manager,” she said.

I hadn’t even known what a care manager was, but she explained it to me.

Apparently, my mother had needed care for the past five years. The person who determines what kind of care she receives is called a “care manager.” The contract holder was my father. That’s why, even though the care manager had noticed the domestic violence, she couldn’t take direct action to stop it. She apologized.

If my father didn’t like being confronted, he could cancel the contract. And if that happened, there’d be no one left to intervene in the abuse.

So up until now, the care manager had managed a delicate balance—keeping just enough distance from my father to gently dissuade him from hurting my mother.

I could tell she’d been doing her best in a very difficult situation.

My mother was also apparently suffering from advanced dementia, compounded by emotional trauma from the daily abuse. Even as I talked to her, something felt off in her responses.

“So, what should I do?” I asked.

“Thank you,” she said. “Actually, I’d like to transfer the care manager contract from your father to you. First, though, we need to get your mother hospitalized to treat her physical injuries.”

That made sense. She was covered in bruises. Something might be seriously wrong.

“What exactly is wrong with her?”

“She has a compression fracture in her spine. We believe surgery may be necessary…”

At this point, the care manager looked like she was struggling to continue.

“Is there something else? Please don’t hold back.”

“Yes… well…”

She began to open up slowly. When they evacuated my mother, they hadn’t had time to take her bankbooks or any of her financial documents.

Even though she’d been to the house many times and knew roughly where things were kept, she couldn’t legally remove them herself.

On top of that, my parents used the same stamp for official documents, and no one knew where my father had kept it. In other words, they hadn’t been able to secure any assets—just her and the clothes on her back.

She apologized, clearly frustrated by this.

“No, thank you for saving her,” I said. “I’ll pay for the hospital. And the care manager’s fee as well…”

“Thank you. But care managers are partially subsidized by the prefecture, so you don’t need to cover that. However, there is one more issue regarding your mother’s hospitalization…”

Apparently, when someone flees domestic violence, they often do so without money or ID, which makes it difficult to access national or local support services.

“That sounds really serious… I’ll go to the ward office and consult with them.”

“Will you be okay? We can offer advice, but we don’t have the authority to submit requests. Can you take time off work?”

Who would’ve thought that being unemployed would be useful now… I was already planning to go to Hello Work (the Japanese employment center) to register my resignation and apply for unemployment benefits.

I couldn’t take action for myself, but for my mother—I couldn’t just sit still. I decided to head straight to the ward office.

○●○

The people at the office were surprisingly helpful. I didn’t even know which counter to go to. When I looked lost at reception, they directed me to the Welfare Division.

The Welfare Division handles public assistance. A caseworker was assigned to me—her name was Kubara.

My mother’s bankbooks were taken by my father, and even her incoming pension was being misappropriated by him. She had no money at all.

They suggested we apply for public assistance. But getting it approved is tough. You can apply if you ask, but it goes through a strict screening process—which is understandable.

We were taken to a small cubicle, and I explained the whole situation to Ms. Kubara. She listened intently, and I could tell she was genuinely kind. Meanwhile, next to us, someone in the next booth was yelling, “Are you telling me to die?! I told you I need to go to the hospital!!”—shouting at full volume. They sounded a bit too energetic for someone needing assistance. Honestly, it was distracting.

“It’s a bit noisy here. Would you like to talk in a separate room?” Kubara offered.

She took me to a quiet, private room on another floor—just about the size of three tatami mats, with a table and two chairs. Perfect for a private conversation.

But this is what it means to apply for public assistance, I thought. People from all walks of life are here. The system has to distinguish between those who truly need help and those who might abuse it.

I poured my heart out. I told her everything: about my father, my mother, even my divorce—though it wasn’t directly related. That I had just quit my job. That my mother needed to be hospitalized. I spent over an hour laying it all out.

Then Ms. Kubara advised me: Since my mother’s pension is still being issued (though the amount is unknown), we could try opening a new bank account and redirecting the pension payments there.

To open a bank account, you need an ID. But my mother didn’t even have a health insurance card. So we had to start from there—reissuing her insurance card.

Everything was complicated and uncertain. But if we didn’t get all the steps right, my mother wouldn’t be able to live safely. It was that serious.

Of course, I was planning to go after my father with a lawyer. The one I knew was a divorce specialist and not ideal for this case. He brought up my own divorce again, but I asked him to wait—this was more urgent.

Back to my mother’s issue. The free consultation told me the legal fees would be 100,000 yen up front, and a 20% success fee. I still had 2 million yen from the settlement I received from my ex-wife and her lover—but I already knew I’d need that for the hospital bills. Would it be enough?

In short, I had no money to spare. So I wrote a letter to my father myself, without a lawyer.

At the same time, I was handling my mother’s hospital admission, obtaining ID, opening a bank account, and applying for public assistance. My life had suddenly become incredibly hectic.