Part 1Family KPI System

My husband, Mark, said that to ensure my contributions were never taken for granted, he was implementing a family KPI system.

He quantified every household chore into a point system. If I did well, I earned points. If I fell short, points were deducted.

For three years, I worked diligently, accumulating 200,000 points.

On our wedding anniversary, I saw a necklace I loved and asked to redeem some of my points for it.

Mark slammed his chopsticks on the table, his face contorted with anger. He called me vain and wasteful.

I tried to reason with him. "But you promised they could be cashed in!"

He let out a cold, contemptuous laugh. "The points are a reward for being an adequate wife, not an ATM for your vanity!"

Just then, his phone rang. It was his childhood sweetheart.

His tone shifted, becoming a gentle murmur I had never heard him use with me. "Zoe, don't cry. So what if the project failed? I ordered you a new car tomorrow, three hundred thousand dollars. Think of it as a reward for having the courage to try."

I stood frozen, the words dying in my throat.

The next day, I filed for divorce on the grounds of emotional abuse and psychological control. I also demanded he pay me for three years of labor, corresponding to my 200,000 points, at the standard market rate for domestic services.

* * *

A bitter smile touched my lips.

Mark glanced at me, his brow furrowed. "What are you laughing at?"

"My two hundred thousand points can't get me a three-thousand-dollar necklace, but a few of her tears can get her a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Mark, what exactly are your rules?"

He ended the call and steepled his fingers, assuming the calm, rational, and unassailable posture he used in court.

"Nina, I thought you were a sensible person," he began, his voice devoid of emotion. "Zoe's situation is different. She's like a sister to me, someone I've watched grow up. Her career took a hit; she needs support."

He shifted his gaze to me, as if I were a line item on a balance sheet. "Your KPI point growth for the last quarter decreased by two-point-one percent compared to the previous one. Your household efficiency needs improvement. Under these circumstances, purchasing a three-thousand-dollar necklace is a classic impulse buy. It's irrational. And it's vain."

The KPI he spoke of was the system he had designed for me three years ago.

Cleaning the house: 10 points.

Cooking a four-course dinner with soup: 8 points.

Hand-washing one of his expensive shirts: 5 points.

For three years, I had performed these tasks day in and day out, meticulously tracking my score. He had called it a quantification of love and dedication, a promise that no effort would ever be overlooked.

But looking at his cold, impassive face now, the whole thing felt like a grotesque farce. My love, my dedication—in his eyes, it was just a string of data that could be dismissed at his whim.

He stood up and walked to the entryway to change his shoes. "Zoe's not in a good place. I'll be staying with her for a few days."

"Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. You said you'd be with me."

"I'll try my best."

My heart went cold.

Last year on our anniversary, he'd said he'd "try his best" to come home. He ended up spending the entire day with Zoe because she'd sprained her ankle.

On my birthday, he'd said he'd "try his best" to be there. He ended up at Zoe's promotion party.

The day I had surgery for an ectopic pregnancy, he'd said he'd "try his best" to make it. A single phone call from Zoe about a breakup was all it took for him to leave me alone on the operating table.

When Zoe was involved, anything concerning me became an optional task, something to be handled with a half-hearted "try." I had confronted him about it once, screaming and crying. He had just rubbed his temples, his face weary, saying he had a duty to look after her for the sake of their families' long-standing friendship. Even his mother had called to subtly warn me not to be so petty.

The door clicked shut, sealing me in my world, him in his. I looked at the cold, untouched dishes on the table and laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.