After the car accident, I lost my child.

When I went back to the hospital for a follow-up, my husband, John, once again made an excuse and left in a hurry.

It was the ninety-ninth time—by now, it had become routine. I had grown used to it.

At first, the sting of being abandoned cut deep, but slowly, I stopped feeling anything at all.

I took my medicine alone, walked home alone, the weight of loneliness settling quietly over me like dusk that never lifted.

At home, I picked up my phone and, without a word, opened her—his “white moonlight,” Pearl’s—social-media page.

“Shout-out to someone special. I just said my waist hurts, and he dropped everything to come over.”

“Such a rare man—values friendship over love. Keep it up.”

The photo beneath the post showed John sitting on the sofa, massaging her waist.

His head rested casually on her thighs; his hand brushed against her intimate body.

She didn’t pull away—just smiled faintly, content.

The image was blinding, yet I didn’t break down or scream this time.

I simply pressed “like.”

John was stunned that I wasn’t angry.

Later, he brought his “darling” to a company retreat.

I even received photos of them—close, laughing, intertwined.

Was I angry?

No.

Another time, I ran into him on the street.

He was carrying Pearl’s child in his arms, the three of them looking every bit a family.

I had to admit—I smiled, calmly.

“Children need their fathers,” I said softly. “You should spend more time with them, John.”

But John froze, panic flashing across his face.

He grabbed my arm, his voice trembling.

“Mabel… why don’t you care at all?”

……

I lost my child in a car accident on my way home from work.

Today marks the second month since the miscarriage surgery, and John accompanied me to the hospital for a check-up.

In the waiting area, he took a phone call. His expression shifted slightly, and after a brief pause, he murmured, “Something came up,” before walking away in a hurry.

I didn’t try to stop him, nor did I lean on him like I used to—pleading for him to stay.

Watching his figure fade into the crowd, I felt a strange hollowness rise inside me.

It wasn’t sadness, not anymore. It was a deeper, quieter kind of calm.

I realized that whether he was there or not, it no longer stirred anything within me.

When the nurse called my name, I went through the motions—exam, prescription, signature—like a machine. Then I walked out of the hospital alone.

Not long after, my phone buzzed.

A message from him.

[Mabel, can you go home by yourself? Something urgent came up.]

If this had been before, I would have replied instantly:

“No, I want you to come get me.”

But now, I only stared at the screen for a few seconds before typing one simple word:

[Okay.]

I put my phone away and flagged down a cab.

As the car pulled away from the hospital, I glanced out the window—and froze.

At the corner of the street, parked beneath a streetlamp, was a familiar black sedan.

John’s car.

Why was he back? Didn’t he say he couldn’t leave?

I didn’t understand until I got home.

Pearl—his so-called old friend—had just posted on Twitter:

“It’s just a sore throat, but he insisted on coming with me to the hospital. After all these years, you’re still the sweetest.”

In the attached photo, the edge of a man’s shirt sleeve was visible.

I recognized it instantly—the shirt I had bought him for his birthday last year.

Yes, that “dear one” was John.

A few years ago, Pearl had followed her husband overseas, living the high life.

Last year, her husband went bankrupt, and she came back with a child and nothing else.

I’d long known that, in John’s heart, I was merely the substitute she left behind.

But back then, I was too in love—and too foolish—to admit it.

I thought that having a child might bring him back to me.

But now I understand—perhaps that accident was fate’s way of warning me:

That child was never meant to be born into this kind of family.

After taking my medication, I drifted into a hazy half-sleep.

In the middle of the night, the door lock clicked softly.

“The doctor—what did he say?” John asked as he stepped inside. His tone was gentle, his hand brushing lightly through my hair.

But I caught it immediately—that faint, foreign scent.

A woman’s perfume, laced with the smoke of his cigarettes.

I turned my head slowly, avoiding his touch.

“Nothing serious,” I forced a small smile. “Everything’s fine.”

He nodded, his eyes flickering. “Work’s been crazy lately. I really haven’t had any time.”

I didn’t expose the lie. I just said softly, “Then before you sleep… maybe you should take a shower first.”

He hesitated, then said nothing more.

Moments later, the bathroom door closed, and the sound of running water filled the silence.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, tears refusing to come.

There was only the endless, suffocating cold.

At dawn, I woke to the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

The faint aroma of oil drifted through the air.

John was wearing an apron, his pale hands moving deftly between the wok and the counter, reheating last night’s leftovers one by one.

“Today, I’ll make it up to you—for your birthday,” he said evenly, tasting a piece of sweet-and-sour pork before nodding to himself. “Not bad.”

I froze.

He was the kind of man who never touched leftovers.

This wasn’t nostalgia.

He was just trying to appease me.

I looked at him and remembered the countless times, after our silent fights, he would do the same—cook a meal, say a few soft words, and wait for me to give in.

Only this time, I didn’t.

“Forget it,” I said quietly, my own voice sounding foreign to me. “My birthday’s already over.”

His smile faltered for a split second, then he masked it with an easy laugh, pulling out a slice of cake and sliding it toward me.

“It’s the new flavor you like.”

It was half a piece of mango cake.

The sugary scent filled the air, thick and cloying.

My throat tightened.

He had never remembered that I was allergic to mango.

Seven years together—and he could name every one of Pearl’s favorite desserts, but couldn’t recall the one thing I couldn’t eat.

I lowered my gaze and swallowed the ache in silence.

He seemed to notice my indifference. His brow furrowed, and irritation crept into his tone.

“Enough already. Just remember to show up tonight—I don’t want to lose face.”

Then, as if to justify himself, he added,

“If it weren’t for Pearl asking me to, I wouldn’t have come back to coax you so soon.”

So that was it.

Even his so-called “apology” had to be prompted by her.

“John,” I began slowly, “I think we should—”

Before I could finish, his phone rang.

The familiar ringtone sliced through the air—and through my chest.

He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor softened.

“Pearl? Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

When he hung up, the tenderness vanished.

“She needs something. I’ll go. Don’t forget about tonight.”

He threw on his jacket and left.

I watched his back disappear through the doorway.

This time, I didn’t call out.

I simply picked up my phone and typed two words:

Divorce.

The message was sent, but the screen stayed dark.

Minutes later, another notification appeared—it wasn’t from him.

Pearl had sent me a video.

I tapped it open.

The lighting was dim and warm, laughter spilling from every corner of the private room.

John sat at the center of the table, a slice of mango cake in hand, his tone casual, almost amused.

“Mabel always throws a tantrum when she’s upset. Saying she wants a divorce? She’s just trying to get me to go home.”

The people around him laughed.

“You were about to leave after giving Pearl that massage, right? But the more she fussed, the less you cared.”

A woman’s voice—hers—chimed in playfully as she sliced a bit of cake and lifted it toward him.

“Here, taste this. Isn’t S Café’s new flavor sweet?”

In the final second of the video, she wiped a smear of cream from the corner of his lips—smiling, soft, intimate.

The screen went dark, and my reflection stared back at me, cold and still.

Sweet?

Perhaps to them, it was.

But for me—

I had finally tasted bitterness in its purest form.

“Mabel’s the type who could date anyone, right?”

“Now that Pearl’s back, maybe it’s time for them to rekindle things?”

“Come on, John’s never really gotten over her.”

I said nothing. My eyes stayed fixed on the video, burning with quiet intensity.

Pearl smiled faintly and replied, “Don’t talk nonsense. We’re just old classmates.”

John reached over and flicked her forehead, pretending to scold her.

“Go make up with your little temperamental girlfriend, or people will start getting the wrong idea about us. I won’t be able to wash that off even if I jump into a river.”

He smiled faintly, but there was a shadow in his eyes.

“I know. She won’t really stay mad at me. If I want, I can win her back anytime.”

I stared at the frozen image on the screen, my fingers trembling.

I had told myself, again and again, to let go.

But the heart—

It never listens.

After all, he had been the obsession of my entire youth.

That Christmas, the moon was round and bright. I gathered all my courage and confessed to him by the edge of the school field.

I knew he was cold and distant—he never spared a second glance for anyone who liked him.

That night, I wasn’t expecting an answer. I just wanted to give my youth a proper ending.

But he looked at me for a long time, silent, before suddenly smiling.

“Alright,” he said softly. “From today on, I’m your boyfriend.”

That smile—clean, dazzling, unforgettable. I thought I would remember it for the rest of my life.

Until one day, in the heat of passion, he accidentally called out another name—

“Pearl.”

That single word froze me in place.

We didn’t speak for three days. Then she showed up at my door with a cake in her hands and tears in her eyes.

“That was someone I used to like,” she said. “It’s over. I won’t bring it up again.”

And I believed her.

Through four years of college, I treated our love as something fragile and precious, afraid to let it break.

After graduation, he said he wanted to move to a new city.

I didn’t even go home—I just followed him there.

He treated me well, too.

Whenever a new dessert came out, he would be the first to buy it for me.

He helped iron my shirts, blow-dry my hair, notice all the little details that made me feel cared for.

For years, we lived quietly, peacefully. I really believed we would make it to the altar someday.

Until six months ago—when Pearl came back.

She looked at me with a faint, knowing smile.

“You remind me a lot of who I used to be,” she said.

And in that moment, I finally understood everything.

His love had never truly belonged to me.

He had been using me all along—to relive the ghost of someone he’d already lost.

Every dessert, every habit, every tone of tenderness—

They all came from her.

He wasn’t loving me; he was practicing how to love her again.

And I… was only the shadow standing in her place.

I remembered how he once said to me:

“Mabel, when our seventh anniversary comes, let’s get married.”

“Christmas is our special day—we’ll celebrate it every year, together.”

But this Christmas, the person by his side wasn’t me.

And maybe that’s alright.

Because soon, I’d be returning home—for an arranged marriage of my own.

The clock’s hands crept past midnight.

John still hadn’t come back.

Once, that would have sent me spiraling—pacing the floor, sleepless, anxious.

But tonight, I slept more soundly than I ever had before.

The next few days passed as if time had been drained of all weight.

I worked, ate, slept—mechanically, without thought.

John was gone. No messages, no explanations.

On the third morning, a text arrived.

“Business trip. Don’t worry.”

He’d even attached a location pin—so thoughtful, so precise.

I typed back, “Alright. Stay safe.”

My fingers trembled slightly as I hit send.

Then my lips curved into a faint, almost invisible smile.

Just as the message went through, a new post popped up on Pearl’s Twitter feed:

“Long-awaited vacation! Finally got the bag I’ve been dreaming of—and someone insisted on buying it for me~”

The photo showed two intertwined hands.

His hand—John’s hand—still wore our wedding ring.

And the tagged location on her post was identical to the one he had just sent me.

For a moment, the ring on my own finger felt like a burning piece of metal.

I slid it off, quietly, and placed it in the drawer.

After that, I practically moved into the hospital, throwing myself into work—

patients, reports, surgeries, meetings—

all noise, all numbness.

I stopped wondering when he’d come home.

Until one evening, as I was leaving work,

I saw a familiar car parked by the gate.

It was him.