While You Stayed With Her, I Buried My Parents

The handwriting on the folder was Wilfred's.

“I will always clear the path for your dreams.”

I stared at that line for a long, long time.

Five years flashed through my mind. Caring for his parents. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. Keeping his house running.

I thought about the envy that cut through me every time I saw my old colleagues burning with passion, pulling late nights to prep their interview scripts.

I laughed out loud.

So he did know how to protect someone's dreams.

I photographed everything, put it all back, and finally made my decision.

“Hey, Selma—I heard the station's looking for someone to go to Central Asia as a war correspondent. Nobody's signed up yet.”

“If you'll have me, I want to go.”

A beat of silence. Then her voice lit up.

“Yes! I always thought it was a waste when you transferred to logistics. This is a rare opportunity. It could be dangerous, but when you come back, your résumé will be a different story entirely.”

“Get yourself ready. You leave in a few days.”

I hung up and started packing.

There was nothing left in this house I cared about.

Except the sweater. The last one my mother ever knitted for me. I was taking that.

She'd knitted me plenty of clothes when I was little. As I grew up, she got older. Her eyes weren't what they used to be.

I didn't want her straining herself, so I told her to stop.

Then I got pregnant, and suddenly I couldn't stand the cold.

She went and knitted me one anyway, in secret. Her eyes were bloodshot from the work, but she just waved me off.

“Homemade is warmer. I picked out the best yarn myself.”

“You fuss over the baby in your belly, and I fuss over mine.”

It hurt and it warmed me at the same time. I never could bring myself to wear it.

But now the sweater was gone.

I remembered the scene when I'd come home. I was about to call Wilfred and ask.

Then I saw Carrie's new Instagram post.

“Hehe, I just said the babies were cold since they were just born, and a certain someone showed up with a sweater~”

“Thanking Daddy on behalf of the babies~ And of course, this Mommy's alteration skills aren't too shabby either.”

So that's where Wilfred had gone. To celebrate a birthday party for her puppies.

In the photo, their heads were pressed together, bodies close.

Each of them cradling three puppies.

And I recognized it instantly.

The little ‘dog outfits’ on those puppies had been cut from my mother's sweater.

When I pushed open the glass door of the pet shop, Wilfred and Carrie were sharing a spoon over a slice of cake.

Wilfred was a severe germaphobe.

At home, his dishes had to be sterilized and stored separately. He never shared utensils at meals.

Once, after I'd spent an entire day cleaning the house, I was so parched I grabbed his cup and took a sip of water.

He didn't say anything at the time. That night, the cup was in the trash.

He'd explained it afterward. Said it was a professional habit from the hospital.

Turns out the habit was selective.

Carrie spotted me and arched a brow, her smile dripping with fake sweetness.

“Oh, Freya! You're here? Wilfred and I have been like this since we were kids, we never really had boundaries. Don't mind it, okay?”

“Wilfred, what did I tell you? She'd never actually go through with the divorce.”

“I mean, a woman whose career tanked, who can only survive off her husband's charity? Without you, how's she going to raise a kid and support her parents? And look, she tracked you all the way here. Clingy much.”

“Sigh. Compared to that, I guess my skin's just too thin. Nothing for me to do but keep being an independent girl boss~”

Wilfred pinched her nose, indulgent and fond.

“Always the clever one, aren't you? Been a little troublemaker since we were kids.”

Then he turned to me, wearing the expression of a man forgiving a child who didn't know better.