The Pain-Share Scam, I Made My Hypocrite Husband Pay

The moment we decided to try for a baby, my husband suggested we split the labor pain 50/50.

He held my hand, looking deeply into my eyes, and said, "Vivian, bringing a child into this world isn't just your job. I want to share the pain with you.

Let’s welcome our baby together." I was incredibly moved.

Especially after hearing that men have a much lower pain tolerance than women, I was eternally grateful to Julian for proposing the PainShare Link.

Because I was constantly worried about the potential side effects the pain might leave on him, I spent the next twentysome years pampering him.

I couldn't bear to see him do any hard labor. By the time I turned fifty, I looked so exhausted and haggard that people thought I was from a generation older than him.

Years later, I accidentally overheard him giving a lecture to our son, Ethan, who was about to get married. "All it takes is a little emotional manipulation, and women will be wrapped around your finger.

Why worry about not being able to control them?" "Back then, I just told your mother I wanted to split her labor pain 50/50, and she worshiped the ground I walked on.

Then, while she was giving birth, I secretly dialed her pain level up to double, making her think I was absorbing a massive amount of it.

She felt so guilty and sorry for me that she pampered me for the rest of her life." I turned around and walked away.

Later, when Julian was kneeling on the bed, crying in agony and begging me to share his pain, I agreed without hesitation.

Only this time, whether it was a blessing or a curse was no longer up to him.

Our son, Ethan, was getting married, but he refused to let me join the toast on stage. "Mom, if you sit next to Dad, people are going to think I don’t have a mother.

You look so old. I only want Dad and Grandma on stage for the toast." Julian immediately snapped, "Ethan! How dare you talk to your mother like that?

Where are your manners?!" Ethan lowered his head but still muttered grumpily, "It’s true, though. A wedding is a onceinalifetime event.

With Mom looking like that, it’s embarrassing for me..." "You still have the nerve to talk back?!" Julian got even angrier, standing up as if he was about to hit him.

I quickly stopped him. It would be a lie to say I wasn't heartbroken. But if my stubbornness was going to make my son unhappy on his big day, I was willing to step back. "Forget it.

I’ll just go up for the speech. I won't make a big deal out of it.

Those who know I'm Ethan's mother don't need an explanation, and those who don't can just think of it as a misunderstanding." "But that’s so unfair to you," Julian said, looking deeply concerned.

I cupped Julian's face to soothe him. "I don't feel wronged.

After all, don't I still have you speaking up for me?" Compared to our son, Julian was the one who would spend the rest of his life with me.

Even if my son and I had friction, didn't I still have a husband who stood firmly by my side? Thinking of this, I felt a bit comforted. "Ethan is an adult now. He has his pride.

Don't yell at him or hit him over such minor things." I stepped out of the room, leaving the father and son some space to talk.

But then I realized I had left something behind, so I turned back. Inside the room, the father and son were laughing together.

I thought it was a heartwarming scene and was about to push the door open when I heard Ethan say, "Dad, your acting is insane.

I finally get what you mean by 'emotional manipulation' now." Julian nodded with satisfaction. "Now you understand why I wanted to give you a lesson on marriage before your wedding, right?" "Women are emotional creatures.

If you want to control them, you only need to invest a tiny bit of emotional effort." "Take just now, for example. You made an unreasonable demand.

All I had to do was pretend to defend your mother.

Not only did she not blame you, but she was also so touched by how much I 'cared' about her that she willingly stepped down and agreed to skip the toast." "And that’s just a minor trick.

Years ago, when I proposed to split her labor pain, she was so grateful she practically cried.

During delivery, she even insisted on bearing all the pain herself, saying my gesture alone was enough.

I rejected her offer with a firm face, which earned me a massive amount of husband points.

Then, I secretly doubled her labor pain, making her believe I had sacrificed so much for her.

She lived with that guilt for decades, which is why my married life has been so easy." "Chloe is pregnant, and you guys are having a shotgun wedding.

We didn't cut down on the engagement gift fund; instead, we doubled it. And now you've actively offered to split her labor pain. She’s already head over heels for you.

Once the baby is born, won't that money just flow right back into your own pockets anyway?" Ethan clapped and laughed. "Dad, you're a genius!" My hand froze on the doorknob.

Peeking through the crack of the door at their hideous, scheming faces, my entire body went cold.

My hands, ruined and calloused from decades of harsh cleaning chemicals, seemed to mock my dedication to this marriage. Without warning, tears streamed down my face.

And along with my tears, a humiliating wetness leaked between my thighs.

The year we got married, the PainShare Protocol was already a mature medical technology.

Julian was the only man among our friends who actively took his wife to the hospital to bind the PainShare Link. What did he say back then? I remembered.

He said, "Giving birth isn't just your responsibility, Vivian.

I want to do everything I can to share the burden." On the day of delivery, I heard that men’s pain tolerance was far lower than women's.

I saw several husbands being carried out of the delivery room, completely passed out and hooked to IVs. Out of sheer love, I begged the doctors to unbind us. But what did Julian do?

He held my hand firmly and told me, "I'm here. Don't worry." During labor, I felt like my body was being ripped apart from the center.

The pain was so intense that I wanted to grab a knife and end my own life just to stop the torture.

In the few seconds I regained consciousness, I kept thinking about how much Julian was sacrificing for me. He didn't have to suffer this.

So, after we brought the baby home, I took over every single household chore to repay his "sacrifice" and love.

I worked while raising our son, choosing to step back and let Julian take the career promotions so he could shine.

Because Julian was a neat freak, I knelt on the floor every single day, scrubbing it three times with a rag.

Once, Julian's shoulder was accidentally impaled by a steel bar at a construction site.

Before he even got to the ER, I ignored everyone's warnings and linked my pain to his so he wouldn't slip into shock. That incident left me with a permanent, aching nerve condition.

I slaved away for decades, to the point where I looked old enough to be his mother. And today, they told me that the labor painsplit never even existed.

Not only that, but he had actually doubled my pain just to gain moral leverage over me.

I walked numbly to the bathroom, changed out of my soiled pants, poured in detergent and disinfectant, and routinely scrubbed, wrung, and hung them on the balcony.

Staring at the underwear that took up half the balcony, I cried harder and harder, as if trying to wash the stupidity out of my brain.

For all these years, my postpartum bladder leaks had been far worse than any of my friends'. I always thought it was because my body was naturally weak.

I had blamed myself over and over, asking why I was so fragile. I never imagined it was all because of Julian. Ethan heard the crying and walked out of his room.

Without even asking what was wrong, he snapped, "What are you crying for?

You're at this age, aren't you embarrassed?" "And that puddle on the floor outside my room—you're just going to leave it there?

That’s disgusting!" "Ethan, don't talk to your mother like that. She’s just busy.

She’ll clean it up in a minute." Julian was still playing the role of the understanding, loving husband, lecturing Ethan.

But this time, I didn't miss the flash of disgust in his eyes. It was crystal clear. He looked at my wet pants, finally realizing what had happened.

He went to the bathroom, grabbed the mop, cleaned up the wet spot on the floor, and rinsed the mop several times to get rid of the smell.

Finally, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, gently patting my back. "Vivian, you've worked so hard all these years. It’s my fault for not doing enough.

I’ll make it up to you from now on." The same sweet, empty promises. But I only felt a chill run down my spine.

I wanted to ask him, Is this another "emotional value" lesson you're teaching our son?

I bolted back into my bedroom, locking the door. I could hear Ethan complaining loudly outside. "She’s so old, yet she still throws tantrums like a spoiled teenager.

Does she really think everyone has to cater to her?!" "Dad, stop coddling her. Look out for yourself.

If it weren't for you, who else would clean up her mess?" Julian sighed. "Don't say that. Your mother has had it rough all these years.

If she hadn't given birth to you, she wouldn't have this medical condition.

We need to show her more care." But right after that, he muttered in a low, repulsed voice, "It really is nasty, though." That one word—"nasty"—was his true voice.

And I had been fooled by him for my entire life. I cried until the sky turned dark. Julian knocked on the door to call me. "Vivian, I know you're not feeling well. I made dinner.

Come out and eat something." I wiped away my tears, my eyes scanning every corner of this house. Finally, my gaze landed on the dining table. Three bowls of plain instant noodles.

Julian smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry I'm holding you back. I wanted to make you a feast to cheer you up, but my body just can't take it.

I can't stand the smell of cooking oil anymore." For years, he had been doing this.

He constantly dropped hints that he had developed a chronic illness because he split my labor pain back then.

If this had happened in the past, I would have said guiltily, "I'm sorry.

I'll handle the cooking from now on." But now, knowing his socalled "delivery side effects" were nonexistent, I just stared at him blankly.

Ethan had his feet up on the dining table, busy ordering an expensive takeout feast on his phone while glued to a mobile game.

He didn't forget to mock me: "Dad cooking for you is already a miracle. If you're in a bad mood, deal with it yourself. Eat the noodles and get over it.

I don't want to see this depressing vibe in the house tomorrow." A hypocritical husband and a coldblooded son. This marriage was utterly meaningless.

I let out a bitter laugh and looked straight at Julian. "Let’s get a divorce." The room fell dead silent. Ethan finally looked up from his phone. "Divorce? Where would you even go?

Who else but Dad would ever agree to split labor pain with you?

He sacrificed so much for you that his health is ruined, and you're throwing a tantrum over nothing?!" "Plus, I'm about to get married!

You dragging Dad into a divorce right now is going to ruin my reputation!

Having a mother like you is the absolute worst luck of my life!" Julian was stunned for a second, but he quickly recovered. "You heard us?" He didn't show a single shred of guilt. "Vivian, that was just a story I made up to teach Ethan how to handle his relationship with Chloe.

You didn't actually believe it, did you?" He reached out to grab my hand, but I took a step back, dodging him.

For the first time, Julian's calm, unbothered face showed a crack of panic.

He couldn't help but ask: "Even if I didn't split the labor pain with you, have I really done so little for you over all these years?" "Look at your colleagues and friends.

Some of them split every single penny. Some husbands cause drama between their wives and mothers, tearing the family apart.

Some couples are broke and miserable." "But what about me? My salary paid for all our living expenses.

You never had to worry about money, and I never forced you to live with my mother. Even if you did the housework, didn't I provide you with emotional support?

How is raising our son not a shared effort?" "Whenever you were too busy, as long as you asked, didn't I always help? Do you really have to draw such a hard line between us?

Or are you just bitter that I'm doing well, and you want to force me to experience labor pain just to prove my love to you?" By the end of his speech, he had successfully twisted the narrative to make me the bad guy.

I always knew Julian was incredibly silvertongued.

He could make me feel like scrubbing the floors until my back ached was just a "great way to exercise." At family gatherings, he would praise me so high that I would happily declare, "Being a traditional, devoted wife to Julian is my greatest happiness." But that didn't mean I would let him gaslight me anymore.

I raised my phone and showed him the audio recording I had just sent to the Vance family Snapchat group. "Julian, stop trying to scrub yourself clean.

Why do you always have to compare yourself to the worst men out there?" "Let's compare you to the decent ones.

Go ask around—who else would think their wife's labor pain isn't enough and actively double it?" "I never forced you to share my pain.

What I hate is that you enjoyed the moral praise of being a saintly husband, while turning around and blaming me, the actual victim, for not being grateful!"