At fifty-nine, I found myself pregnant again. More than twenty years ago, when we froze my eggs, my husband, John, and I were struggling financially. We hoped that after years of hard work, when things finally looked up, we could welcome a new life. But when that day finally arrived, I decided to personally end this hard-won fruit of our love. I was mesmerized, staring at the video. The woman in it, her silver hair framing a pretty face now streaked with tears, had just finished reading hundreds of handwritten letters from John. She covered her face, crying with regret, lamenting all the missed chances with John, shattering the last filter on what I thought was my perfect family. This false perfection? I'd rather not have it. 01 Just two weeks into the pregnancy, I was idly scrolling through short videos. The algorithm was scarily accurate; my husband’s name, “John Smith,” made my swiping finger pause. The woman in the video, though her hair was white, still possessed a gentle charm: “Johnny, we’ve missed so many years! You have no idea how hard I’ve looked for you!” Her face was full of regret as she covered it and wept. The vlogger’s schtick was man-on-the-street interviews, specifically asking elderly people about their life regrets and stories. The star of this particular video, a woman named Sylvia Shaw, was talking about her "one that got away." At the beginning of the video, she confidently introduced herself and recounted her unforgettable past with my husband, John. She said they grew up together, and even back then, they’d had a mutual understanding. But because they were young, neither had confessed their feelings. It wasn't until her family had a sudden upheaval and moved away, without a chance for goodbyes, that she lost the opportunity to tell that young man, “I like you.” With no contact information, that accident became a permanent separation. This young man became her "great lost love," and because of him, she said, she never married, always waiting for him. Just as I was sighing at this woman’s one-sided devotion, the video continued: The vlogger, chasing views and authenticity, had managed to find the man Sylvia spoke of—my husband, John. When they met, they stood speechless, tears streaming down their faces. John’s eyes were filled with the pain and regret of years apart. After a daze lasting more than half a minute, prompted by the host, John handed Sylvia a thick stack of letters. He said he’d written them to her over the years but, not knowing her address, couldn't send them. Now, finally, he could put them in her hands. The stack was so thick it took two hands to hold it steady; there must have been hundreds of them. Meaning, in the forty or fifty years they’d been apart, he’d written several love letters to Sylvia Shaw every year. Deep in emotion, John read a few of them aloud: “It’s the third year since we parted. I’ve met many girls, but only you remain forever in my memory.” “Sylvia, where on earth did you go? When will I ever see you again…” … “My family’s pushing me to go on blind dates. Sylvia, I can’t wait for you anymore.” “We talked about grocery shopping together, cooking together, enjoying the simple life, seeing the world together.” “But you broke our promise. Maybe in the next life, we’ll be together.” That was the year I met him on a blind date. He was 28, I was 22. So, his quick decision to marry me after knowing me for only six months wasn’t because he approved of me, but a casual move after failing to marry the girl he truly desired. Time moved on, and he picked up a few letters with clearer handwriting: “Today, Katherine asked me to take her to Paris. I said no.” “That was the romantic city you yearned for after seeing the magazine I gave you. How could I possibly go with another woman?” At that time, John’s business had just hit its first major success, and our daughter was on summer vacation. I’d never been abroad and wanted John to show me the world. He’d just made an excuse about being busy and flatly refused me. I never imagined the real reason was that he was saving that romantic scenery for someone else. “Sylvia, I was very sick recently. I thought I was going to die.” “But during the most painful part of my surgery, your face was the only thing in my mind.” “I don’t want to die. Maybe we can still meet in this life, just like before, sitting on the bridge at the edge of town, watching the sunset together. Then, I’d have no regrets.” That year, he was fifty-seven, I was fifty-one. He had a liver cyst, and it was indeed serious. He was in so much pain he couldn’t get out of bed. The doctor said it was a good thing they found it early, or he might not have made it. During the months of chemo, I stayed by his bedside every day, bathing him, washing his things, feeding him three meals a day. Only after the nurses’ shift change at 4 a.m. would I go home to take care of the elderly members of our family. So, when I was hunched over, feeding him, was he thinking about when he could have romantic moments with her again? How laughable. By the time John read the last letter, he was sobbing uncontrollably: “When I got that anonymous call saying you’d been waiting for me all this time, I was in a daze for a long while.” “Is it really you, Sylvia?” “Only then did I realize you’d been waiting for me. I’m the one who failed you.” This letter was dated June 2021. I clicked to check the video’s release date—December 20, 2021. So, the video was incredibly popular, but since I rarely used my phone, I was only seeing it now. This timing also reminded me. It was around then that my husband, John, started taking more frequent long trips, claiming he was scouting new projects. He’d be gone for a month or more at a time. Oh, God, why only let me see this now? 02 When I met my husband, I had just become a teacher in a small town. Upon first meeting me, he was full of praise for my profession: “A woman who teaches is wonderful, well-read and reasonable. Just my type.” Little did I know that this compliment, which made me happy for so long, wasn’t for me. It was because teaching was Sylvia’s dream. He was always looking for her shadow. If he couldn’t find someone similar, he’d look for a similar status or profession. Two years after we married, I got pregnant. Because there were so many chores at home and my in-laws needed care, my husband, John, persuaded me to quit my job. He appealed to my emotions and reason, saying the family couldn’t manage without me. He would be the one braving the business world; he hoped his wife would simply be a smiling presence at home, taking care of him and our child. Because I loved him, I did as he asked. That was the exact year I was due for a permanent position and promotion, my only chance for a tenured teaching spot. Over the years, John went from a junior employee to a manager. And now, using my family’s savings to start a business together, he had opened more than ten chain stores, becoming a respected boss. And I, once a pampered girl who’d never done a day’s hard labor, had become a worn-out housewife with calloused hands. My daily life was a three-point circuit: kitchen, grocery store, granddaughter’s preschool. Occasionally, I’d have to drive over fifteen miles to pick up a dead-drunk John and carry him home. My monotonous thirty-plus years were swallowed by trivialities. Meanwhile, John was successful, a respectable chain store owner and investor. He was even rejuvenated by the undying spark of love in his heart. It was already dark when John pushed open the door. This man standing in the dim entryway, whom I’d lived with for nearly forty years—today, I couldn’t see him clearly at all. “Why isn’t dinner ready yet, Kate?” John’s voice, as he entered, broke my train of thought. Only then did I realize it was almost seven in the evening. Usually, when John came home at this time, I would have dinner cooked, his bathwater ready. All he had to do was eat, bathe, and rest. But today, I hadn’t managed to do anything, and John’s face was already showing some displeasure. “Can we eat out tonight? I’m not feeling well.” I dragged my heavy body up and replied faintly. “Eat out? Are you kidding, Kate? In my condition, can I eat out?” “What’s wrong with you today? Isn’t the baby still small? You should still be able to cook, right?” John finally let his gaze rest on my face. His furrowed brow and impatient expression met mine, and only then did I remember: for so many years, he’d been obsessed with his health, especially his diet. Particularly after his recent surgery, he’d bought me stacks of medical books, demanding I follow them to create the best meal plans for him. Breakfast had to be chicken liver congee and white fungus egg custard. The chicken liver had to be bought at 5 a.m. from a farmer in a remote area, the freshest available, sliced into fine shreds, and simmered for an hour. The white fungus had to be the plumpest, most flawless pieces, hand-torn into small bits, and simmered with egg for exactly forty-five minutes. Not a minute more, not a minute less, or John would say it lost its original flavor and nutrition. Lunch and dinner were a bit easier; I could cook them normally. But John would only eat food cooked with olive oil. Where would our small town have culinary olive oil? I had to spend hours online researching, finally picking a reliable online store for long-term purchases. Actually, when he was discharged, the doctor had only said to eat less oil and salt; he wasn’t nearly this particular. “Oh, Kate, I’ve told you I only like your cooking.” “Never mind anything else, just go make dinner, please. Thanks for your hard work, my Kate.” Seeing I didn’t respond, John simply started talking while nudging me towards the kitchen. He himself didn’t stay a moment longer, turning around to sit on the sofa, scrolling on his phone, an occasional dazed smile on his face. John used to be generous with praise for my cooking. Only now did I realize those words were actually commands coated in honey. Even if you were unwilling, he’d force you to comply. I didn’t want to hear it anymore. I closed the kitchen door and opened a food delivery app. While waiting for the delivery, I booked a doctor’s appointment for the next day. “What’s this, Kate? You weren’t cooking in there? Why did you order takeout?” John, holding the just-delivered food, pushed open the kitchen door, somewhat annoyed. “I’m tired today. Just once, let’s have takeout.” “These are dishes we eat all the time. Young people eat this stuff daily; one time won’t hurt.” I took the takeout and sat down at the table, starting to eat by myself. As I ate, listening to John’s unhappy complaints, tears welled up uncontrollably. In my thirty-plus years with John, despite life’s hardships, I’d considered myself quite happy and fulfilled. After I quit my job, he focused on his career, and I took care of the home. In his words, I was the best kind of supportive wife. In my memory, though he was mostly a busy figure, he had never raised his voice at me. I thought we were a model couple, admired by the neighbors, because of our mutual understanding and support. But in the end, the truth was, I had never truly entered his heart, which created the illusion of a harmonious “respectful as guests” marriage. These thirty-plus years of “happiness” were like an empty mirror, now completely shattered. Tears blurred my vision, and my heart felt like a stormy sea. Finally, all my grievances poured out. I put down my chopsticks and started to wail. My hands unconsciously beat against the man before me. John was shocked by my outburst, staring at me helplessly, asking what on earth was wrong. I stared at this man before me, who couldn’t “see” my heart at all. I felt as if all my energy had been drained, and everything seemed utterly meaningless. I opened the video I had saved earlier, turned the volume to maximum, and demanded a pointless explanation. Before it even reached the most dramatic part—John’s heartfelt confessions—he snatched the phone away: “Who sent this to you? What’s so interesting about it!” “It’s just reminiscing about an old friend from childhood, nothing to explain.” “Can’t I have female friends?” “When you were young, you had tons of male friends around you!” “Besides, you can see this video is from years ago.” “And you know young people in business these days, who doesn’t play around with the internet?” “I was just cooperating with the vlogger for some traffic. It’s all in the past. What are you trying to do?” “Sylvia and I, we did have some feelings, but that’s over.” “If you’re going to make a fuss about it now, you’re in the wrong. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and found Sylvia, have you?” “I’m warning you, I won’t allow you to disturb her!” At this moment, John showed no trace of guilt. His eyes wide with anger only told me one thing: he only cared about her. In this whole affair, as the wife, my entanglement and accusations—he was never worried about my pain, only about Sylvia Shaw’s well-being. This argument, one of the few in our half-lifetime together, ended with the harsh sound of John slamming the door as he left. 03 He didn’t come back that night, and I didn’t ask. The next day, I woke up very early and went to see the doctor I had already scheduled.
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