Silent Cries The Cost of Love and Loss

No, he wouldn’t feel regret. He had been waiting for my death for a long time, eager to be free from my endless messages and calls. Now, he finally had an answer for his mother’s tragic passing.

Each time I tried to move toward that bright light, an invisible force pulled me back to Matthew’s presence. Was I bound to him even in death?

Lily had finished her tooth extraction, her cheeks slightly swollen. Matthew leaned close, blowing gently on her cheek. “When I was little, my mom said blowing on it would make the pain go away.”

His hand trembled slightly as he caressed her cheek, a telltale sign of his unease. The pain of his mother’s loss was a wound that never healed.

“What’s wrong?” Lily asked, her voice gentle and curious.

“Nothing,” he replied, forcing a weak smile. “I just thought of my mom suddenly.”

There was an awkward pause before Lily quickly changed the subject. “No work today. How about we go get something nice to eat?”

Matthew playfully tapped her nose. “You little foodie! The doctor said you need to eat light. Only porridge, remember?”

Lily pouted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But the porridge I make is awful. Why don’t you come to my place and make it for me? It’s been years since you cooked for me!”

Hand in hand, they walked toward Lily’s home. I floated alongside them like a shadow, my heart heavy with memories of this house—the very one Matthew had bought when he and Lily were still together. Even when financial troubles loomed over him, he clung to this home, borrowing from loan sharks to keep it. It had never been about us; it was always about her.

Lily had left him for a life abroad, chasing dreams while Matthew remained shackled to his past. “Do you remember?” she asked, nostalgia glimmering in her eyes. “You were in the kitchen making porridge, and I was sitting on the sofa, watching you quietly.”

“You promised to buy me a big villa,” she reminisced, “but I didn’t want that. All I wanted was a cozy little home with you.”

My heart twisted painfully. Why did my soul still feel such agony? I had once stood in that kitchen, with Matthew gazing at me, love in his eyes. We had been blissfully happy in our tiny apartment, unaware of the shadows lurking beneath the surface.

Now, Matthew turned on the gas with practiced ease, and the scent of white porridge soon filled the kitchen. A wave of memory crashed over me. He remembered something, then walked to the fridge and retrieved a few lettuce leaves. He finely chopped them and added them to the porridge.

“Jennifer… I heard adding lettuce to white porridge makes it taste better.”

His gaze lingered on the bowl, trembling as he lost himself in thought. This was the lettuce porridge I used to make for him, a comforting remedy during his sick days. I had concocted countless variations for him—century egg, vegetable, corn, pumpkin—yet I had never tasted the porridge he made.

Just then, his phone rang, and an unfamiliar landline number flashed on the screen. He answered, and a frantic voice erupted from the other end.

“Hello, are you Jennifer’s husband? You need to come to the hospital immediately to sign some papers. Your wife has passed away…”