After the divorce, he cried and begged me to forgive him.

After the car accident, I lost my child.

When I went back to the hospital for a follow-up, my husband, John, once again made an excuse and left in a hurry.

It was the ninety-ninth time—by now, it had become routine. I had grown used to it.

At first, the sting of being abandoned cut deep, but slowly, I stopped feeling anything at all.

I took my medicine alone, walked home alone, the weight of loneliness settling quietly over me like dusk that never lifted.

At home, I picked up my phone and, without a word, opened her—his “white moonlight,” Pearl’s—social-media page.

“Shout-out to someone special. I just said my waist hurts, and he dropped everything to come over.”

“Such a rare man—values friendship over love. Keep it up.”

The photo beneath the post showed John sitting on the sofa, massaging her waist.

His head rested casually on her thighs; his hand brushed against her intimate body.

She didn’t pull away—just smiled faintly, content.

The image was blinding, yet I didn’t break down or scream this time.

I simply pressed “like.”

John was stunned that I wasn’t angry.

Later, he brought his “darling” to a company retreat.

I even received photos of them—close, laughing, intertwined.

Was I angry?

No.

Another time, I ran into him on the street.

He was carrying Pearl’s child in his arms, the three of them looking every bit a family.

I had to admit—I smiled, calmly.

“Children need their fathers,” I said softly. “You should spend more time with them, John.”

But John froze, panic flashing across his face.

He grabbed my arm, his voice trembling.

“Mabel… why don’t you care at all?”

……

I lost my child in a car accident on my way home from work.

Today marks the second month since the miscarriage surgery, and John accompanied me to the hospital for a check-up.

In the waiting area, he took a phone call. His expression shifted slightly, and after a brief pause, he murmured, “Something came up,” before walking away in a hurry.

I didn’t try to stop him, nor did I lean on him like I used to—pleading for him to stay.

Watching his figure fade into the crowd, I felt a strange hollowness rise inside me.

It wasn’t sadness, not anymore. It was a deeper, quieter kind of calm.

I realized that whether he was there or not, it no longer stirred anything within me.

When the nurse called my name, I went through the motions—exam, prescription, signature—like a machine. Then I walked out of the hospital alone.

Not long after, my phone buzzed.

A message from him.

[Mabel, can you go home by yourself? Something urgent came up.]

If this had been before, I would have replied instantly:

“No, I want you to come get me.”

But now, I only stared at the screen for a few seconds before typing one simple word:

[Okay.]

I put my phone away and flagged down a cab.

As the car pulled away from the hospital, I glanced out the window—and froze.

At the corner of the street, parked beneath a streetlamp, was a familiar black sedan.

John’s car.

Why was he back? Didn’t he say he couldn’t leave?

I didn’t understand until I got home.

Pearl—his so-called old friend—had just posted on Twitter:

“It’s just a sore throat, but he insisted on coming with me to the hospital. After all these years, you’re still the sweetest.”

In the attached photo, the edge of a man’s shirt sleeve was visible.

I recognized it instantly—the shirt I had bought him for his birthday last year.

Yes, that “dear one” was John.

A few years ago, Pearl had followed her husband overseas, living the high life.

Last year, her husband went bankrupt, and she came back with a child and nothing else.

I’d long known that, in John’s heart, I was merely the substitute she left behind.

But back then, I was too in love—and too foolish—to admit it.

I thought that having a child might bring him back to me.

But now I understand—perhaps that accident was fate’s way of warning me:

That child was never meant to be born into this kind of family.

After taking my medication, I drifted into a hazy half-sleep.

In the middle of the night, the door lock clicked softly.

“The doctor—what did he say?” John asked as he stepped inside. His tone was gentle, his hand brushing lightly through my hair.

But I caught it immediately—that faint, foreign scent.

A woman’s perfume, laced with the smoke of his cigarettes.

I turned my head slowly, avoiding his touch.

“Nothing serious,” I forced a small smile. “Everything’s fine.”

He nodded, his eyes flickering. “Work’s been crazy lately. I really haven’t had any time.”

I didn’t expose the lie. I just said softly, “Then before you sleep… maybe you should take a shower first.”

He hesitated, then said nothing more.

Moments later, the bathroom door closed, and the sound of running water filled the silence.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, tears refusing to come.

There was only the endless, suffocating cold.

At dawn, I woke to the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

The faint aroma of oil drifted through the air.

John was wearing an apron, his pale hands moving deftly between the wok and the counter, reheating last night’s leftovers one by one.

“Today, I’ll make it up to you—for your birthday,” he said evenly, tasting a piece of sweet-and-sour pork before nodding to himself. “Not bad.”

I froze.

He was the kind of man who never touched leftovers.

This wasn’t nostalgia.

He was just trying to appease me.