The Fortune Teller

I am the 17th-generation descendant of the Lincoln family, a lineage of fortune-tellers. The Lincolns have an ancestral precept: descendants shall not divorce within ten years of marriage; those who violate this bring disgrace to the family. Kevin Jones and I have been married for exactly ten years. These ten years have been a prison sentence, trapping me in a loveless marriage with no way out. Everyone in our social circle knows about Kevin's infidelity—everyone except me, who clung foolishly to that outdated precept like a joke. He never bothered to hide it. He would even swagger to the alley where I set up my stall, surrounded by his cronies. My stall is at the end of an old town alley: a dark gray velvet cloth spread out, with a compass and fortune-telling sticks—my entire livelihood. They would stand nearby, pointing and whispering, betting on whether I dared drive away the woman by his side. Her name is Wendy Scott. With curved eyebrows and dimples when she smiles, she is Kevin's cherished first love, the one who lingered in his heart like an unattainable moon. Every time they came, I would just bow my head to tidy the fortune sticks, as if I didn't hear their harsh taunts. Passersby praised my calm demeanor, but only I knew the searing pain in my chest, like being repeatedly pricked by the compass needle—dense and unrelenting. Kevin would deliberately walk up to me, clutching Wendy's hand tightly, and sneer: "Master Lincoln, tell me—will Ms. Scott and be together forever?" I lifted my eyes, glancing past the provocation in his gaze, and said coldly: "Fortune follows the heart. A corrupt heart yields a negative fortune." His friends roared with laughter, mocking me for sour grapes, for clinging to an empty marriage and deceiving myself. Wendy would tug gently at Kevin's arm, her voice timid: "Kevin, don't make things hard for Ms. Lincoln." I bowed my head, hiding the bitterness in my eyes. I knew she wasn't timid—she was putting on a show. By pretending to be gentle and sensible, she highlighted my humiliation. Such insults happened every few days. I endured them for ten years, growing more exhausted with each passing day. It was our tenth wedding anniversary. As usual, he arrived with Wendy and his friends. He splashed a glass of wine onto my velvet cloth. The liquid soaked the fortune sticks—and extinguished the last of my patience. "Kevin, we're getting a divorce." I looked up at him, my voice calm yet unshakable. He froze for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Yvonne Lincoln, don't be ridiculous. Daring to break the Lincoln family's precept?" His friends joined in the jeering, saying I was just throwing a tantrum and would soon beg him to take me back. Wendy stood aside, a faint smirk playing on her lips, watching the scene like a spectator at a show. "The ten-year term is up. The precept only binds for a decade." I pulled a divorce agreement from my bag and placed it in front of him. "Sign it." The smile faded from Kevin's face. He had never imagined I would actually dare to ask for a divorce, to break the ancestral rule. He picked up the agreement, flipping through it repeatedly, his fingers trembling slightly—clearly panicked. He had always thought I would be trapped by the precept and the family's reputation, at his mercy for the rest of my life.