My son George practiced magic for two months just to perform on stage with his dad for Children's Day. I stayed up three nights sewing matching capes for the father-son duo. In the pocket of the larger cape, my son secretly tucked a lollipop, saying it was a reward for Dad. Two hours before the performance, Mason said his first love's daughter also had a show at her kindergarten, and no one was going. I told him his son had been waiting for two months. He was already grabbing his car keys. "I'll just take a quick look and come right back. Tell him I went to the bathroom." I asked what if he didn't come back. He paused for a moment. "You'll be there, won't you?" When the curtain rose, the large cape was neatly draped over an empty chair, the lollipop still in the pocket. My son stood alone under the spotlight and said, "My magic trick is called—The Disappearing Dad." Not a single person in the audience could laugh. On the way home, my son finished that lollipop himself and asked me, "Mom, if I disappear too, then Dad won't have to choose anymore, right?" I held his hand and said with a smile, "Mom will perform a big magic trick with you."
On the way home from kindergarten, George was very quiet. He didn't shed a single tear the entire time, didn't even complain once. He just clutched the plastic stick from the half-eaten lollipop. As soon as we got through the door, the doorbell rang urgently. Mason's driver, Alan, stood outside panting, holding a huge cardboard box. "Miss Annie, Mr. Mason asked me to deliver this." Alan wiped the sweat from his forehead and carefully set the box down. "Mr. Mason called me several times on the road urging me to buy this Ultraman Lego set. He said he left in a hurry and was afraid George would be upset, so he wanted me to hand it to George personally." "Mr. Mason also said on the phone to stop by that dessert shop you always go to, Miss Annie, and buy a taro roll, but the shop was closed today." I looked down at George. George didn't even lift his eyelids. He simply walked around the box blocking his way, carrying his little backpack, and went straight to his room. Click—the door closed. Alan awkwardly rubbed his hands. "Miss Annie, this..." "Just leave it. Thanks for your trouble." I calmly closed the door. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Mason on SnapChat. "Daisy was crying so hard backstage she could barely breathe. The situation isn't good. I need to stay and comfort her. Explain to George for me. Did he get the Lego?" I didn't reply. Right then, a new notification popped up—a post from Mia. The photo showed a man's upright figure from behind, bending down to hold a little girl in a princess dress. The caption read: Thank you for saving a lonely little girl's Children's Day. That silhouette—I'd been looking at it for ten years. Staring at the glaring image and text on my phone screen, all I felt was deep exhaustion. I calmly walked to my desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out a divorce agreement I'd drafted long ago. Turning to the last page, I picked up a pen and steadily signed my name in the wife's section—Annie Brown. Then I walked to the calendar on the wall. In the box two days away, marked with a smiley face and the words "Family Photo," I picked up a black marker and drew a pitch-black circle over it. Late at night, the living room lights were off. I sat on the sofa with scissors, the red cape I'd spent countless sleepless nights sewing draped across my lap. Blood from needle pricks had stained the lining—all to create the perfect father-son performance. The scissors mercilessly tore through the fabric. Golden tassels fell in two pieces onto the carpet. I cut and cut, mechanically, until the cape that held months of my son's anticipation became a pile of scraps. I swept them all into the trash. At two in the morning, the sound of the password lock came from the door. Mason pushed open the door, smelling faintly of alcohol, exhaustion written all over his face. He casually loosened his tie and was about to change shoes when his movements suddenly stopped. In the moonlight, he stared down at the trash bin by his feet. Inside, the shredded red cape lay quietly. "Annie, what are you throwing a fit about now?" Mason frowned deeply, strode over to me, and looked down at me sitting on the sofa, irritation in his voice. "Didn't I have Alan deliver the Lego? You spent so long sewing that cape..." He suddenly paused, his gaze sweeping over the red scraps in the trash, his tone turning cold and hard. "But did you really have to do this?"
I sat in the darkness, staring coldly at him. "Mason, two years ago when George was four, you canceled a pre-meeting for a merger contract just to teach him a card trick." "You said then that childhood only happens once, and if you miss it, you can never get it back." "Now he's practiced for two months just so you'd sit in the audience for half an hour, and you think it doesn't matter?" Mason's breath caught. He tugged at his tie again. "That was because of an emergency! Daisy doesn't have a father. She was hiding in a corner crying alone, and Mia was beside herself with worry. What was I supposed to do, ignore them?" As he spoke, he walked over and reached out to put his arm around my waist, trying to pull me into his embrace. "Come on, be good." He lowered his voice coaxingly. "I came back, didn't I?" The moment he touched me, nausea rose in my stomach. I turned my head away in disgust and forcefully pushed his hand away. Mason's hand froze in midair. He snorted in displeasure and muttered something about me being unreasonable. He turned to grab his suit jacket from the sofa, preparing to take a shower. Just then—thud. A small box fell from his jacket pocket and rolled to my feet. It was a bottle of men's cologne with sweet notes. Mason stopped. He immediately came over and picked up the cologne. "Mia insisted on giving this to me to thank me for helping today. I wasn't planning to keep it." "Does it feel good playing the man of someone else's house?" I looked at him with a mocking, cold laugh. That sentence hit Mason's sore spot precisely. His expression changed. He stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. His five fingers gripped tightly. I could feel the slightly hot temperature of his palm. "Annie, can't you understand me? That child doesn't even have a father. I just helped out once. George has you—what do I have to worry about?" He paused, sighing with a trace of exhaustion. "You're my wife. You're the one I trust. As long as you're there, I can rest easy." I looked at his face. Pain shot through my wrist, but my heart had gone numb. I didn't struggle. I just looked at him with the dead, desolate eyes one gives a stranger. Mason met my gaze and suddenly froze. He immediately released my hand and, right in front of me, threw the cologne bottle into the trash. "I don't want her stuff!" He said in a panic, "I only use the woody cologne you buy me. Is that okay now?!" With that, he turned and fled into the bathroom. The next morning, I took George to the photography studio in the city center. "Hello, I'd like to cancel this weekend's sixth birthday family photo package." I handed the receipt to the receptionist. George pressed against the studio's display window, staring at the Ultraman-themed family portrait poster. He'd saved half a year's allowance and stubbornly insisted the whole family take this photo together. He looked at it for a long time but said nothing. Just as we left the studio, my phone rang. It was Mason. His tone was unusually hesitant. "Annie, this weekend the company has an urgent acquisition. I... I have to go on a business trip." I held the phone, listening to Mason's guilty voice through the receiver, feeling utterly absurd. Rewind half an hour. I'd just come out of the bathroom. Passing by the study, I heard voices inside. Mason's phone was on speaker. Mia's crying voice was especially clear in the quiet room.
"Mason, Daisy's private elementary school interview is this weekend. The school requires both parents to attend, or she'll be disqualified..." "I'm begging you, please pretend to be my husband for half a day, okay? Just half a day! I'm getting on my knees! If you're not there, Daisy's whole life will be ruined!" Mason was silent for a long time, then said in a low voice, "Send me the address." This was his so-called unavoidable business trip excuse. "Annie, are you listening?" On the other end of the line, Mason asked again when I didn't respond. "I heard you." My tone was strangely calm. Mason seemed relieved. Then my phone dinged—a transfer of two hundred thousand dollars. "Honey, take George to buy the most expensive birthday present. Consider it my way of making it up to him. Wait for me to come back." He hung up. Looking at the string of numbers on my screen, I pulled at the corner of my mouth. That weekend, on George's sixth birthday. I took him to the mall, wanting to buy him a children's watch he'd been eyeing for a while. Coming out of the mall, right across the street was the city's private elementary school. George had been looking down, fiddling with the toy in his hands, when suddenly his movements stopped. He looked up, staring blankly across the street. A black Bentley was parked at the school gate. Mason stepped out of the car in a suit and tie. He took the hand of a little girl in a pink dress. On the other side of the girl stood Mia, beaming. A happy family of three. Just then, Mia tried to loop her arm through Mason's. Mason coldly avoided her. I could even see his lips move slightly, as if warning her about something. But this self-righteous claim of innocence looked utterly ridiculous in this moment. Shortly after, my phone buzzed. Mia had posted on Ins, tagged at this very private school. —Thank you for being here. You're our eternal support, mother and daughter. I turned to look at George. Through the traffic, George watched with his own eyes as his father, who was supposed to be on a business trip, played father to someone else. He had no dramatic reaction. He simply walked over and silently threw the toy he'd just bought into a nearby trash can. After we got home, George took out his calendar with the countdown from his backpack and picked up a black crayon, flipping to the birthday page. Originally, that square had a smiley face and stick figures of a family of three. George gripped the pen and forcefully colored that square pitch black. The black ink bled through to the back of the page. "George..." My eyes stung. I crouched down, wanting to hug him. George looked up. Those clear eyes were now filled with darkness. "Mom, I'm never celebrating my birthday again." I silently picked up my phone and called an overseas immigration agency I'd contacted before. That evening at eight, Mason came home early. He pushed open the door to find the house dark, the table completely bare. His gaze swept over where the birthday cake should have been, his expression faltering. He flipped on the living room light with a click, looking at me sitting on the sofa. "Annie, it's George's birthday today and you didn't even buy him a cake?" He said in a low voice, "If you want to get mad, take it out on me. Is it appropriate to use a child's birthday to make a point?" Mason pulled at his tie and strode up to me. His gaze swept over the empty dining table, his eyes unconsciously evasive. "I know I shouldn't have missed today, but the sudden business trip was out of my hands."
"Things are what they are. Annie, can't you put in a good word for me with George?" I didn't get up. I simply picked up the blacked-out calendar from the table and threw it at his feet. "It's your son who doesn't want to celebrate anymore." Mason looked down at the black scribbles, his brow twitching. "Next month... next month when the company isn't busy, I'll cancel everything and personally take him to the amusement park." His gaze avoided mine, fixed on the tightly closed bedroom door, his voice unconsciously dropping. "I owe him this time." Just then, George's voice came through the crack of the closed bedroom door. "Uncle Mason, I don't want to go." "Uncle Mason?" He repeated those two words quietly, his voice suddenly soft. The living room was so quiet you could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Then he slowly lifted his eyes to look at me, fury churning in their depths. "Annie, who taught him to say that?" He strode toward the bedroom and grabbed the doorknob, about to barge in. "Stop!" I lunged over to block him, pressing myself firmly against the door. Through the door, I suddenly heard George's heavy, rapid breathing. I pushed the door open and rushed in, reaching for George's forehead—his skin was abnormally hot. I grabbed the thermometer—103.6 degrees! "George has a high fever!" I turned frantically toward Mason. "Quick, get the fever medicine!" Mason paused, about to get it when his phone suddenly rang, Mia's name flashing on the screen. He answered. Immediately, Mia's crying came through. "Mason! Come quick! Daisy got so upset from not doing well at today's interview that she's burning up, and she's locked herself in her room with scissors and won't let anyone in!" Mia sobbed breathlessly. "I don't dare upset her. She's allergic to regular fever medicine! I remember you said the imported fever reducer George takes works really well. Please bring a box and save her! If we wait, she could die!" Mason's face changed. He listened to the crying on the phone, then glanced at me with my back to him. "Mason, the medicine is at the bottom of the medicine cabinet. Hurry!" My voice trembled with urgency. Mason pushed past my hand and strode to the bedside, pressing the back of his hand to George's forehead and frowning. He looked at the child's flushed face, then turned toward the medicine cabinet. "Annie, listen to me—George just has a regular fever. Some fever medicine and a night's sleep and he'll be fine. Over there, Daisy has scissors in her hand—someone could actually die. I'll handle it and come right back. You watch him." He strode to the medicine cabinet and pulled open the drawer. What he did next made my blood run cold—he actually took out the only remaining box of George's usual fever medicine and stuffed it into his pocket. "What are you doing?!" I rushed over to grab it. "That's George's medicine!" "Daisy's allergic to regular fever reducers, and she's holding scissors. Annie, let me finish." His voice was low and rushed. "I'll take this box. You go downstairs to the pharmacy right now and buy regular medicine for George. He's strong, he can handle it." He turned sideways to avoid my reaching hand and hurried toward the door. "Annie, the pharmacy downstairs is a ten-minute walk. Go buy some now. I'll come right back after I handle this." I lunged forward and grabbed his arm, refusing to let go. He yanked hard. I stumbled and crashed into the hard edge of the table. Bang—I fell to the floor, my elbow scraped open, blood welling up. Mason turned back. His steps paused for two seconds. His lips moved. "Take care of that wound first." "Half an hour. I'll be back in half an hour." With that, he turned and walked out, slamming the door shut. The moment the door closed, my phone showed a message—Mason had sent a pharmacy location with a note: This one's open 24 hours, close to home. From the bedroom came a sudden gasp. Then George's eyes rolled back, his body convulsing, guttural sounds coming from his throat. Febrile seizure! "George—!" I screamed, crawled over and scooped up my convulsing son, and ran out into the rainy night. Rain poured down. Lightning lit up the darkness. Harsh white light hit my face. I was soaked through. George's vomit mixed with the blood flowing from my elbow, soaking through my clothes. "Family member! The patient has acute febrile seizure leading to respiratory failure. Critical condition. Sign the critical illness notice immediately!" A doctor rushed out with a form, speaking rapidly. "We need both parents' signatures. Where's the father?!" I took the pen with trembling hands. Rainwater mixed with blood blurred the paper. "He's dead." I said through gritted teeth, word by word, and signed only my name on the form. During the long wait outside the emergency room, I used the nurses' station landline to call Mason thirty times. The first three were instantly rejected. From the fourth on, I heard the automated message: The number you have dialed is powered off. At four in the morning, the emergency room door finally opened. "We brought him back, but he needs to stay in ICU for observation." The doctor said wearily. Through the glass, I watched George's small body covered in tubes. He weakly opened his eyes and lifted the hand with the IV catheter, laboriously tapping the screen of his children's watch in small movements. When the screen lit up, he found the number labeled Superman Dad and pressed delete. I knew clearly that George no longer needed the role of father. In the morning, George's condition stabilized and he was moved to a regular ward. I sat by the hospital bed, took out my phone, and called my lawyer, then contacted the overseas agency. "Yes, liquidate all funds and stocks under my name. Give full authority to sell the two properties at bottom price. Transfer the proceeds directly to my overseas account." After handling this, I pulled out the inner compartment of my bag. The European visa I'd gotten to celebrate George's sixth birthday would come in handy after all. I booked tickets to Venice for this weekend, looked at the sky outside the window, and let out a deep breath. The next evening, I brought George home for one last visit. The house was still in the same disarray as the night Mason left. I didn't touch anything that belonged to him. I packed my clothes into a suitcase, then added George's documents. Before leaving, I walked to the table. I placed the signed divorce agreement neatly in the center. Next to the agreement, I set down the candy wrapper left from the Children's Day magic show. "Mom, where are we going?" George held my hand and looked up to ask. "Mom's going to perform a big magic trick with you."
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