Fading sorrow

My wife Catherine Reynolds skipped our son's funeral to pick up her old flame at the airport.

Worse, I was dying too.

In my final days, I chose to let her go.

But after I died, why did she lose her mind?

1

Ian died.

From a chubby little toddler, he turned into a cold jar of ashes.

At the funeral, people came and went, offering their sympathies, some genuine, some not. I overheard their whispers.

"Poor kid, gone at three, and his mother's not even here."

"Sebastian's just a son-in-law who married into the family. Ian was adopted. Catherine doesn't care. She went to pick up her old flame from the airport. If it weren't for Timothy dumping Catherine back then, Sebastian would've never had a chance to marry her."

"What a shame. The kid's dead, and the mother doesn't show. Being a son-in-law like that must be tough."

Yeah, if I'd known it would come to this, would I have insisted on marrying Catherine?

I couldn't find an answer.

I stood there, dazed, tormented by illness and grief, unable to tell reality from illusion.

Catherine's wedding vows still echoed in my ears, but her presence was nowhere to be found.

I stood frozen for a long time, as if it took me that long to realize the question. Where was Catherine?

Why didn't she come?

Oh, right. Timothy Palmer returned to the country today.

Because of my brain tumor, I collapsed. Ian, trying to find his mother, stumbled out the door and was hit by a car.

Just two days ago, my three-year-old boy nestled his face into my shoulder, calling me Daddy in his soft, warm voice.

Now, nothing remained.

After losing Ian, I finally understood what death meant.

The tenderness I felt when I first saw Ian, the joy of adopting him, the warmth of being called Daddy, and his puzzled questions about why Mommy was never home…

Those moments wove together in my mind, only to fade like old film, cracking into fragments.

They tore my heart to pieces.

I felt like a man drowning in a cocoon, struggling against threads that tightened until they suffocated me.

I had lost my child forever.

With some unspoken stubbornness, I stood until midnight, staring at the entrance.

Catherine never came.

2

Kelly Moore, the housekeeper, glanced at me cautiously and said Catherine was too busy.

Yeah, Catherine was busy.

I gave a bitter smile in my heart. So busy she didn't know I was gravely ill. So busy she couldn't attend her son's funeral.

But this marriage was something I begged for.

When Timothy abandoned Catherine, and her family pressured her to marry, she had no choice. So she settled for me, the suitor who'd been chasing her for years.

I knew it wasn't love, just stability.

She was used to me always waiting for her, knew I loved her desperately. Marrying me was the safest, easiest choice.

Even so, I mocked myself, "Sebastian, why does it still hurt so much? You knew from the start she didn't love you, didn't you?"

Maybe I was fooled by the fleeting moments of warmth over the past two years, thinking Catherine might actually love me.

Now that Timothy was back, I understood.

Compared to him, I was nothing.

But Ian was innocent. He deserved parents who cherished him, not this cold, early death.

Unconsciously, I fell asleep on the living room couch, clutching Ian's photo.

Catherine returned in the morning, in a rush.

It didn't feel like she was coming home. It felt like she was stopping by a hotel for a quick rest.

Seeing me with Ian's photo, she snapped, "What's the point of acting like this now? Why didn't you take better care of him before?"

I choked, unable to respond.

Should I have told her Ian ran out looking for her because I collapsed?

But Catherine didn't even know I had a terminal illness.

I wasn't sure she'd care if she did.

With difficulty, I said, "It's my fault…"

It was my fault for dragging Ian into my life.

She looked at me for a moment. "I never agreed to the adoption. It was an accident. Let it go."

Then she left for work.

As if Ian wasn't her son, as if he'd never called her Mommy.

How could Catherine's heart be so cold?

I gave a bitter laugh, my low voice echoing in the empty living room.

I chased her for years, and she barely glanced at me.

Why would Ian be any different?

I was greedy, thinking I could have a normal, happy future with Catherine.

What a ridiculous confidence.

Ian was an unwanted child, like I was.

I thought bringing him home would bring us happiness, but people like us were born to be unloved.

So Ian was gone, and I was dying.

Catherine's coat lay on the couch. After years of watching her, I knew every strand of her hair, every piece of clothing.

She didn't look like a mother who'd just lost a child. The coat was almost festive.

I could sense the joy she felt picking up Timothy.

And then, a faint whiff of cedarwood cologne drifted from it.

A familiar men's scent.

Timothy's favorite.

3

Catherine went to work.

The only daughter of the prominent Reynolds family was always busy.

Like countless days and nights before, I was alone at home.

I decided to wash her coat.

When I picked it up, her phone fell out.

Before I could unlock it, it rang. Timothy. "Hey, I accidentally left my phone with Catherine yesterday. I'll come by to grab it. Sebastian, is that you? Long time no see. Can you drop it off at the office? I'm with Catherine."

Timothy, just like when we were kids, loved taking everything from me.

My childhood, my mother, now my wife.

At the office, I saw Catherine and Timothy laughing together, her face lit with a rare, carefree smile I hadn't seen since we married.

With me, she was always composed, distant.

So this was how she was with Timothy?

Timothy saw me, smirked, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

Catherine was tying his tie.

I'd begged her countless times to tie mine, like couples in TV shows.

She always brushed me off, cold and annoyed, saying, "I run a huge company. I don't have time for this. The housekeeper can do it. It's the same."

But was it so hard for my wife to tie my tie?

If she hated it, what was this scene?

Her back was to me. I couldn't see her face.

But the tie was painfully familiar, the same one she'd once given me.

Same tie. Could the role of husband be just as interchangeable?

My heart felt soaked in bitter wine.

Unwilling to dwell on it, I handed the phone to the receptionist and left.

It wasn't that she couldn't do it. She just didn't want to do it for me.

Ian.

Daddy might not be able to bring Mommy home after all.

4

Back home, I mechanically opened a box of pastries from Holliland Bakery.

Catherine's favorite. I always bought them for her when I passed by.

I was distracted driving, but I still brought them home.

Loving Catherine had been my habit for years.

At dinner, Catherine came home. She sat at the table, handed me car keys, and said casually, "Got you a new model. Were you at the office today?"

I stared at her for a moment, then smiled as if it didn't matter. "Just picked up some pastries. Let's eat."

Seeing the pastries, Catherine let out a small sigh of relief.

Just like before.

No matter when she came home, I always had pastries ready, waiting for her after work.

That night, Catherine nestled into my arms as we slept.

It had been a long time since we were this close.

I knew it was just guilt, a hollow gesture.

Before, I would've been overjoyed at her affection.

Now, it felt like a bone-deep chill.

The tumor in my spine sent dull waves of pain, like a hammer striking endlessly.

Catherine fell asleep. I held her and opened my eyes in the dark.

I didn't even like cars. She never knew.

Looking at the wife I'd chased for years, I wanted to ask her did she ever love me.

5

I met Catherine like something out of a cheesy TV drama.

A bullied boy saved by a bold, radiant girl.

From then on, Catherine lived in my world, and no one else mattered.

I watched her get driven to school, watched her win competitions, watched her hair dance in the sunlight, and watched her fall in love with Timothy.

Timothy, my half-brother, was lucky.

As a kid, our mother loved him. As an adult, Catherine did too.

I had nothing.

No, I had Ian.

But now he was gone.

I had nothing left.

I decided to start writing a diary to record my life.

6

The pain grew stronger. What used to be occasional aches turned into constant torment.

My waist felt like a wedge had been driven under my skin, grinding me down every second.

Maybe the pain was too much, but I suddenly thought of my mother.

When I was young, she abandoned me. I didn't blame her.

A violent husband and crushing poverty—who could endure that?

She was just an ordinary woman.

I knew she was kind once. She used to fan away the summer mosquitoes while I slept.