In the two years since my wedding, my husband had never once come home.
Lonely beyond endurance, I bought a convicted slave to warm my bed.
He was certainly diligent between the sheets, but as a person, he was far too vain.
My purse couldn’t take it, so I simply kept him on a poor man’s budget.
Unable to stomach a life of coarse tea and plain meals, he roared, “I don’t want to be your husband anymore!”
Puzzled, I said, “I’m already married. You’re just my kept man.”
His eyes went bloodshot as he gnashed his teeth. “You’re this broke, and you’re still trying to keep a lover on the side like everyone else?!”
And with that, we went our separate ways.
I packed my things and returned to the capital, where I heard that my long-missing brother-in-law had finally come back.
He was kneeling in the ancestral hall and had been given ten lashes.
My mother-in-law was so furious she cursed, “You actually fell for a married woman! Have you no shame at all?!”
I hurried forward to plead on his behalf.
To my surprise, my brother-in-law turned his head, looked at me, and slowly smiled. “Sister-in-law, have you been well?”
I was stunned.
Wasn’t this my vain, status-obsessed kept man?!
