Our Love Turned to Dust, Yet You Left Me in a World of Winter

When Larissa Hamilton was at her poorest, my mother threw a check for thirty million dollars at her.

My mother barked an order, “Just take the money and leave Ajax forever!”

Larissa didn’t argue. She quietly took the check and disappeared. Not long after, she joined New York’s elite social circles and rose faster than anyone expected, becoming one of the richest women in the city.

That same year, Larissa transferred everything she owned to me. Her savings, properties and shares. She left nothing for herself. Not only that, but she also hired a team of top lawyers for me and a group of people who would protect me no matter what happened.

Larissa told me that she wanted to make me the happiest man in the world.

But on our wedding day, she made me wait for twelve long hours. In the end, what I received wasn’t her. Instead, it was the news that her adopted brother, who was recently released from a mental hospital, had run over my mother again and again with his car, killing her on the spot.

Along with that came a letter of apology from the woman I loved most. Immediately, I grabbed a dagger and pressed it against my own neck.

“Either he is behind bars or I will kill myself!”

Larissa just sat there as she smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in silence before slowly taking the blood-stained dagger from my hand. Later, her adopted brother was sentenced to five years in prison. But four years into our marriage, I came across an anonymous post she had made online.

[I’ve had four abortions for him. But now I’m pregnant again. If I have another abortion, I’ll never be able to have children. Should I keep the baby?]

People online were confused, so she explained further in her post.

[My lover was sentenced to five years in prison. He couldn’t stand the suffering, so he pretended to be sick to avoid staying inside. I’m just afraid that if I give birth next year, it might delay his early release.]

I read the post over and over again, then quietly picked up my phone and called someone.

“Please check whether Larissa’s adopted brother has actually been in prison all these years.”

——

Less than three minutes later, I received an answer.

“Larissa’s adopted brother, Richard Burton, was indeed sentenced to five years. But shortly after entering prison, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Still, whether that’s true or not … ”

My fists turned white. My nails dug deep into my skin, but I felt no pain. The voice on the other end shook slightly.

“For the past few years, Richard has been pretending to have cancer. Meanwhile, Larissa secretly became pregnant several times. Each time, she had an abortion just before giving birth. She claimed it was her own choice … and … ”

“Enough. Stop talking.”

My voice caught in my throat as I wiped a tear from my face with cold fingers.

“Find out where Richard has been hiding all these years.”

After the call ended, I looked again at the post. Someone had replied to her.

[You’ve had several abortions? They weren’t your husband’s, right? I understand. I’ve been through this too.]

[Even if your husband doesn’t know whose child it was, it doesn’t matter. It’s still your baby. You’ve already done enough for the man at home.]

The last comment and the small line below it that said ‘liked by the poster’, stabbed straight into my eyes. So, this was the woman who had promised to love me with all her heart. I logged out of the account. But by mistake, I opened another system on my computer.

Larissa once told me that from now on, every password and lock in our home would use numbers only I knew. But that night, I typed again and again until the system froze for ten minutes. Still, I couldn’t unlock it.

I sat there for a long time, staring blankly at the screen. Then I typed again. This time, I entered the date Richard had been sentenced.

Ding!

It was successfully unlocked.

What appeared before me were more than 1,500 photos of Richard. It was then that I realized just how many ways the same man could be photographed from every angle, in every place. Each photo had a note beside it, written carefully in her familiar handwriting.

At that moment, my dear wife finally helped me see the truth. What had she been doing all those nights when she said she was working overtime? What had she been up to during our trips, during the Spring Festival, Valentine’s Day, Children’s Day, Christmas and even on my birthday?

I opened each photo one by one, reading every word she had written, forcing myself to relive their four years together in the cruelest way possible.