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Work? The image of that torn stocking in the photo flashed in my mind. So that was where they were “working” together–right on the bed. I could only imagine how wild it must’ve gotten if it landed them both in the hospital.
I pulled away in disgust when Mark tried to touch my shoulder. He frowned and threw a secondary bank card at my face.
“Enough already. I’ve unfrozen your card. Now get back to wedding planning and stop with this nonsense.”
Just hours ago, this card could have saved my mother’s life. But now, like the eight years I’d spent with him, it was worthless. I opened my mouth to respond, but his phone rang.
Chloe’s sugary voice came through loud and clear through the speaker, “Mark, that lotus leaf chicken soup you made was
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delicious! Will you come over and make it again?”
He glanced at me, then took his phone out to the balcony. His voice softened, a tenderness I’d never heard before. I could make out, “Okay, baby… sure, sweetie,” and other unfamiliar words came over one
after another.
He returned only long enough to remind me to clean the house and press his suit for tomorrow. Then, he left.
In eight years, he’d stepped into the kitchen just once, only to shatter all the dishes and nearly start a fire. That disaster meant I cooked every meal for eight years. Only now did I find out through another woman that he could actually cook–and even well -just not for me.
I brushed away tears and picked up the card he’d thrown. Eight years ago, I’d moved to this unfamiliar city for him,
supporting him with all my savings, driven by love and the hope of paying for
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mom’s treatments. Now, love was gone and so was my mom. I had no reason to stay. There was nothing left for me here.
***
With a simple wrap on my injured foot, I went to register my mother’s passing. My mother, once so full of life, was now reduced to a slip of paper, pressing on me like a weight I could barely hold. After scheduling her cremation tomorrow, I returned to sort through her belongings, my heart breaking with each piece.
Late in the evening, at the bottom of a box, I stumbled on a rough sketch of a wedding venue–one Mark had once made. I froze, remembering that early year we were together, clinging to each other with a promise that someday, he’d make something of himself.
He had held my hand in front of my mom and vowed, “Rachel, one day I will succeed. I’ll give you the grandest wedding. I’ll use everything I have to make up for every
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struggle you have been through all these
years.”
In order to prove his heart, he stayed up all night and drew this sketch with one stroke. according to my preference.
Funny how time blurs even the most solemn promises, how new love erases the old. I was about to toss everything into the trash when Mark walked in. When he saw that I wasn’t cooking, his expression was a bit unhappy. He mockingly laughed after looking down and seeing the wedding sketches in my hands.
“This is the tacky nonsense you came up with after a whole day?” he scoffed. “It’s ugly and outdated–just like you. I wouldn’t mind if I were stingy, but stop
embarrassing me with your penny-
pinching. Honestly, I should have Chloe handle the choices. Her taste is way better than yours.”
He had forgotten our promises and discarded the memories. Without a word, I
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tossed the sketch–and, with it, every remaining piece of our past–into the trash.
