In the seventh year of our marriage, I discovered two letters my husband had written to his first love. One was a love letter, the other a will. “In our next life, you’ll be my wife,” he wrote. “I’m leaving you my estate. Even after I’m gone, I won’t let anyone mistreat you.” I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh as I bought a plane ticket. That morning, I ironed my husband’s shirt one last time and saw him off at the door. In the entryway, he hesitated, waiting for my usual goodbye kiss that never came. “Anna, don’t be upset. The lipstick stain from last night was just a misunderstanding,” Christopher said, his voice tinged with frustration. “I was just giving a friend a ride home. Don’t overthink it.” I didn’t cry or make a scene. “Oh, I don’t mind,” I replied coolly. Because I had already found someone new and was preparing for my second marriage. But he panicked. After sending Christopher Evans off, he lingered at the door, waiting for something. My tone was indifferent. “You’ve got your briefcase and watch. What else do you need?” Christopher’s jaw tightened, his brows furrowed as he maintained a dignified silence. Seven years of marriage, and before that, I had pursued him for three years. A decade of love, and I knew every little movement and gesture of Christopher’s body. He was waiting for a goodbye kiss. Because I hadn’t leaned in to kiss him and say “I love you” as usual, he felt something was off. “Anna Lee, are you still angry? The lipstick stain was a misunderstanding.” “That girl wasn’t feeling well, so I gave her a ride home. It was an accident.” “I’ve been explaining all night, the evidence is clear. Can’t you be a bit more rational?” His tone was calm, but every word carried a hint of reproach. Christopher was a lawyer, always logical in his speech, never leaving any loopholes. Even our prenuptial agreement was written meticulously. It didn’t shortchange me, nor did it show favoritism. Last night, because of that cologne-scented suit jacket, I had cried and yelled. It was the same jacket I had carefully ironed that morning, without leaving a single crease. To learn that technique, my fingers were covered in burn marks, wrinkled and unsightly. But that evening, his jacket carried someone else’s perfume and kiss. The color and scent of the lipstick were familiar to me – his first love’s favorite. When we first started dating, Christopher would buy perfumes and cosmetics for me. I was touched, thinking this would be for life. Although the color and scent were subtle, I didn’t like them at all. But it was his gesture of affection, wasn’t it? I suggested changing to a different kind, but year after year, Christopher kept sending the same ones, regardless of whether I liked them or not. Later, I found out that he was actually buying them for his first love. Giving them to her was genuine; giving them to me was just an afterthought. “I believe you, okay?” I said, glancing at my bare finger. I had taken off my ring the night before, leaving a red mark on my ring finger. Would Christopher notice? If he had shown even a hint of wanting me to stay, I might have softened and forgiven him one more time. But Christopher quickly glanced past my hand, ready to leave for work. “Oh, and I want to eat fish tonight,” he said casually, assigning me a task as if I were more of a housekeeper than a wife. Watching his tall figure disappear into the elevator, I felt my heart sink a little more.
I found the love letter and the will on the bookshelf. They were brazenly tucked into a romance novel, as if he didn’t care if they were discovered. Christopher never allowed me into his study. I had always been obedient, never entering in all these years of marriage. But that day, Christopher had left a document behind and made an exception by giving me the study’s password. “The password is 716523,” he said. I was taken aback. The first three digits were Christopher’s birthday, but the last three weren’t mine. The voice on the phone was urging, “The court is about to start, hurry up.” In my haste to grab the document, I knocked over a book. Christopher never read romance novels, but when I opened the pink cover, I saw his first love’s name inside. “To Claire Wilson, with love.” “You are my lifelong treasure.” This sentence was in Christopher’s neat, flowing handwriting. His handwriting was beautiful. Many times, I had wanted him to write me a letter, but Christopher always refused, saying he didn’t like handwritten letters, that they were too much trouble. Inside the book, Christopher’s handwritten letters to his first love fell out. One was a love letter, the other a will. The love letter was a full 19 pages long, the writing getting smaller and smaller until he added a final note: “The paper is short, but my love is long.” The will was written cautiously, meticulously. Christopher had a hereditary disease and feared he might suddenly pass away. In the will, there was also a list of assets, with the majority left to his first love. Christopher had even bought life insurance, naming his first love as the beneficiary. “Claire, even if I leave this world before you, I will protect you for the rest of your life.” The contract was written formally and properly, but every word showed his bias towards his first love. That night, when Christopher reached out to remove my shoulder strap, I pushed his hand away, feeling slightly nauseated. “Anna? I want you,” he called out passionately, his fingertips tracing my collarbone. Usually, I would shyly let him do as he pleased. “It’s my fertile period now. You said you didn’t want children yet,” I replied calmly, stating a fact. On our first day of marriage, he had set three rules with me, one being no children yet. But to his family, Christopher used my physical unsuitability as an excuse. Completely avoiding his own reasons. Every time my in-laws saw me, they wore disapproving expressions. I had been taking fertility drugs they sent for a year after year. My menstrual cycle had become irregular from all the medication. When I saw a doctor, she warned, “If this continues, it will be very difficult for you to have children.” I went home and told Christopher, and a flash of joy crossed his eyes. “My parents are just concerned about me. Please bear with it for my sake, darling.” “My career is on the rise. We’ll have children when things stabilize.” Christopher coaxed me for a few days, and I softened, willingly continuing to drink the bitter medicine. Now, hearing my refusal, Christopher’s face cooled, and he turned over to sleep without another word. “I won’t initiate anything for the rest of this month,” he said. I lay awake all night. Although it was a double bed, my back had been cold for years. He knew I was prone to cold, but all year round, Christopher kept his distance. Except when he needed me. I opened my phone and booked a one-way ticket back to my hometown. I sent a message to my mother, “Mom, I’m preparing for a second marriage. Can you help me find someone?” She immediately agreed. “My good daughter, you’ve finally decided to leave that ungrateful man!” “Wait, your mother has a wide circle of acquaintances.”
Before I met him, I knew he had a first love. When they got engaged, his parents interfered, and his first love threw a tantrum, refusing Christopher’s proposal. But the hotel and the officiant had already been arranged. Christopher, too proud to back down, turned to me instead. “Anna Lee, would you like to give us a try?” he asked. His gaze was determined, and he didn’t even kneel. He just looked down at me. Because Christopher knew I wouldn’t refuse his request. After all, I had pursued him for three years. That day, I gave up my overseas assignment and directly put on the veil, registering for a flash marriage. Everyone around me said that after three years, I had finally succeeded. I was also secretly delighted that I could marry him. Christopher was handsome and from a well-off family. Within a few years of our marriage, his law firm had branches all over the city. When we went out, people called me Mrs. Evans. That day, I waited for him in the parking lot, ecstatic with a positive pregnancy test. His career was stable now, and a child would be the icing on the cake. The car was parked in its spot, windows tightly closed. I sweetly tapped on the window, pressing my face close. “Mr. Evans, you’re going to be a daddy!” But Christopher hurriedly rolled down the window, and a familiar scent wafted out from the car. Faint, but enough to make my eyes burn red. In the passenger seat, his first love also had teary eyes, her lipstick smeared messily. “I’m so sorry, sister-in-law. I forced a kiss on Christopher,” she said. “I just had a bad breakup and lost control of my emotions.” “You won’t mind, right?” With her back to Christopher, Claire Wilson spoke in a gentle tone, but the corners of her mouth curled up, her eyes curved in a smile as she made a mocking gesture towards me. I threw the pregnancy test directly at her face, shaking with anger from head to toe. “Get out!” “Is this how your parents taught you to be a homewrecker?” But Christopher raised his hand and slapped me. My ear rang, and my right earlobe hurt badly. The earring he had given me fell off, along with a bit of flesh. I clutched my face in panic, collapsing to the ground. A dull pain spread through my lower abdomen, like waves crashing over me. He looked at my bloodshot face in shock but still spoke righteously, “You’ve gone too far, Anna Lee. You know very well that Claire comes from a single-parent family.” “I hate it most when people rub salt in others’ wounds. How did you become so vicious?” My stomach hurt badly, and I curled up, begging Christopher to take me to the hospital. “I’m pregnant, hurry up, honey.” The word “honey” stopped Christopher, but the first love in the passenger seat let out a whimper. “Ow, it hurts.” His attention was immediately drawn to his first love. She also clutched her forehead, where there was only a bruise the size of a fingernail. “Chris, my head really hurts. But you should take your wife first, isn’t she pregnant?” Claire said, her eyes full of tears and grievance, constantly sniffling. Christopher hurriedly caught her tears and instinctively started the car. “Anna Lee, this is intentional harm. If anything happens to Claire, I will sue you.” The lawyer with a 100% win rate, my husband, was now threatening to sue me because of his first love. “Honey, I’m pregnant,” I said again. Christopher frowned, “Being pregnant is not an excuse for being impolite.” “You’re not that fragile. Stop pretending, have some self-respect.” The car drove away. I ended up losing the baby. But Christopher stayed with me for a month, attending to me day and night, feeding me nutritious meals, coaxing me through treatment, and even helping me bathe. This proud man was willing to put aside his dignity. Everyone advised me, saying men make mistakes sometimes, and I should forgive him. I softened my heart again. He wrote a promise, guaranteeing he wouldn’t let me hurt even a finger. “Anna, in this life, I only recognize you as my wife.” “Claire Wilson is just an ordinary friend to me.”
When the news of Christopher getting into a fight reached me, I was throwing out the last of the garbage. All the photos of Christopher and me, gone. Along with our couple outfits and handmade preserved flowers. Things I used to cherish so much now seemed like fragile, useless trash. The couple outfits I bought for Christopher, he never wanted to wear, thinking it beneath his dignity. But in the closet, there was always a pair of watches, the men’s one for him, and I had seen his first love wearing the women’s one. “Come quick, Christopher is fighting with someone in the parking lot!” “His forehead is bleeding, and his fingers are injured too!” As a lawyer with a reputation to uphold, he rarely got into conflicts with others. Even when cut off in traffic, he would silently note down the license plate and report it, never dirtying his own hands. Always calm and restrained, even when I had a car accident, he could deal with it without changing his expression. Initially, I fell in love with his cool rationality, but now, I only hated his calmness. Because he would lose control for other women, but remained overly rational with me. I tilted my head to hold the phone, unhurriedly cutting the lucky bamboo. This was a plant I had nurtured for seven years, praying for his well-being. Now, I was breaking it piece by piece, stuffing it into the trash can. “Who was Christopher fighting for?” I asked, cutting straight to the point.
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