Eh, I don’t know who needs to hear this, but I’m just going to type it out because my head is going to explode. People keep telling me, “Bro, move on lah,” “Let karma handle it,” or “Just live and let live.” Easy for you to say when you aren’t the one living in a nine-year-long nightmare, right?
We were colleagues. Both married, both miserable, or so I thought. We fell hard, the kind of messy office romance that you know will end in disaster, but you just can’t stop. We made a pact. We swore to divorce our respective spouses and start a new life together. I actually did it. I signed the papers, I walked out, I burned my bridge—all for her. She promised me the same. But guess what? I got played. She didn’t move an inch.
Then came the kicker: she got pregnant with my child. And yes, I know what you’re thinking—call me a dumbass, call me a clown, I already told myself that every night for the last decade. But here is the part that kills me. She was stuck in Singapore (She is Malaysian staying and working here, only returning home once a week) during the whole circuit breaker period, and I know for a fact the math doesn’t add up to her husband. That kid is mine.
She got sloppy, her circle of “friends” or sisters—whatever they are—couldn’t keep their mouths shut, and eventually, the truth leaked out. Her husband, who has an IQ lower than a carrot, finally figured it out. And you know what she did? The moment the pressure was on, she just pulled the plug on me. She chose to abandon me, ran back to Malaysia, and took my child with her. Never looked back.
People say “face” is everything in the Malaysian Chinese community. Well, I want to see her again. I want to see her face when I bring the truth to her doorstep. If I expose her—if her parents, her relatives, the whole village knows what she did and whose kid that really is—it’s going to be absolute carnage. Everyone tells me I’m being evil, that I should just leave it alone. But why should I be the only one rotting for nine years? She gets to play happy family while I’m here, still missing her, still wanting her, and absolutely fuming over the fact that she stole my flesh and blood.
Call me obsessed. Call me whatever you want. But that isn’t just a “mistake” she made. That’s my child. And if destroying her pristine family image is what it takes to get some kind of justice or even just a glimpse of them, then so be it.