7
As the New Year Ended, Things Began to Improve
The sickness that had struck me so fiercely left just as quickly. Before I knew it, I was out of bed and moving around again.
For days, my parents had been by my side, tirelessly caring for me like they used to when I was a child.
But then I noticed the silver strands in my mother’s hair, the way my father’s back had become more hunched.
It hit me like a wave–I was in my thirties now. I wasn’t young anymore. The days of being naïve and reckless were long gone. My body had grown, and so had my mind.
On the eighth day of the new year, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time–I put on a new dress and stepped outside.
The streets still carried the joy of the New Year celebrations. Red lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, and laughter filled the air as people greeted one another with cheerful “Happy New Year!” wishes.
I visited a restaurant I used to frequent when I was younger. The owner had changed–perhaps it was his son now running the place.
The food didn’t taste quite the same as I remembered, but when I took a bite of those familiar noodles, a part of my younger self seemed to resurface.
The streets were alive with bustling crowds, people calling out greetings and exchanging laughter. No one noticed me. No one stopped for me.
And yet, standing there, surrounded by life, I was overcome with a sudden, aching longing.
I wanted to see my daughter.
I bought her a new dress–something in her size–and picked out all her favorite snacks.
When I placed them at her grave, I noticed a wilted bouquet of flowers lying nearby.
I knelt down, picked up the dried stems, and carefully arranged them back into the vase.
I thought of all the times she must have wondered why her father was never around.
Why it was always her mother at parent–teacher conferences, always just her mother at home.
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Softly, I whispered to the gravestone, my voice hoarse and trembling:
“In your next life, don’t be my daughter again.”
The words caught in my throat, and I paused for a long moment before continuing.
“I loved you, but what good did that do? I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t give you a happy life. In your next life… go to someone who can.”
The Call That Changed Everything
On the fifteenth day of the New Year, I got a call from the police.
Maybe the new year really was bringing change. They had finally caught the people who had taken my daughter.
I drove overnight, barely stopping to rest, until I reached the police station.
And there he was–Luke Harrison.
We hadn’t seen each other in a year. He looked thinner, his face gaunt, his posture slouched.
He stood with his head bowed, listening intently as the officers spoke to him.
For a brief moment, I remembered the day we learned about our daughter’s death.
That night, I couldn’t stop crying. When I glanced up through my tears, I saw Luke slumped in a corner, silent, his face pale and drawn.
Maybe, for a moment, he had truly loved our daughter. After all, she was his blood too.
Whatever hatred he might have felt for me, I couldn’t imagine him hating the child we shared.
But maybe our daughter had been unlucky–unlucky to have a mother like me, someone so blind and powerless.
When I thought of Luke’s gentle smiles toward another child, my anger wasn’t directed at him.
It was directed at myself.
I hated the woman I had been, the woman who refused to see the truth. I hated everything about her.
