My wife wants to remarry.

My wife’s best friend of forty Christmases died of cancer. At the memorial service, my wife suddenly announced that she was going to remarry her best friend’s husband. Tearfully, she confessed they had truly loved each other for many Christmases and wished to spend the rest of their lives together. Our children wailed, relatives pleaded, and I begged desperately, but she remained silent to it all. Watching them holding hands tightly in the pouring rain, I felt all my strength drain away. It seemed I had never truly won her heart, so what was the point of keeping her physically by my side now? I walked out the door and handed my wife the signed divorce agreement: “Fine, I agree to the divorce.” …… Yvonne Langley stared at me, her eyes filled with disbelief. Then, with trembling hands, she took the divorce papers, carefully shielding them with her clothes to protect them from the rain. As if they were her lifeline. My heart couldn’t help but ache with a sharp pain. This freedom to pursue true love—she had probably been yearning for it for forty Christmases. And the man whose fingers were intertwined with hers, though wrinkles had formed at the corners of his eyes, still carried himself with elegance. Jensen Chandler gently pulled Yvonne into his arms and sincerely said to me: “Joel Garrison, thank you for understanding. I’ll take good care of Yvonne from now on.” As their silhouettes disappeared into the rain-shrouded night, two cars hurriedly pulled up in front of the house. My son Xavier Garrison and daughter Shay Garrison quickly brought me inside. Seeing another copy of the divorce agreement on the table, they exchanged glances before asking me: “Dad, what’s going on? You actually agreed to divorce Mom?” I felt utterly exhausted. Rubbing my forehead and taking a deep breath to ease my pounding headache, I finally spoke: “You can’t force love. At our age, we don’t have many Christmases left. If your mother is determined to do this, we should respect her decision.” Yvonne and Rosalie Shaw had been close friends for forty Christmases. They met because of Jensen and me, but developed an exceptionally deep friendship over time. For all these Christmases, our two families were practically one. Rosalie fought cancer for ten Christmases before finally leaving this world. Who could have imagined that at her memorial service, Yvonne would do something that shocked everyone—she announced she was going to marry her best friend’s husband, Jensen. It was only then that I learned the truth. Apparently, she and Jensen had privately committed to each other over forty Christmases ago while volunteering in the western regions, but they were forced apart by the government’s return-to-city policy that relocated urban youth back from rural areas. Later, Yvonne and I had an arranged marriage through matchmaking. On our wedding day, she saw her first love Jensen among the guests I had invited. But by then, it was too late. In her hesitation, the years slipped away. Yvonne, concerned about the frail Rosalie, had suppressed her feelings all this time. Finally, after Rosalie’s passing, she declared her true feelings without reservation. The room fell silent. My daughter poured a glass of warm water and placed it in my hand. After a while, she softly asked: “Dad… after the divorce, how will you divide the family assets?” I felt a pang of shock, then realized the children had a right to know, as it would affect their future responsibilities toward both parents. So I answered honestly: “Your mother wanted to leave with nothing, but I stipulated in the agreement that we’d split everything equally.” Xavier sighed with relief and said: “That’s good. Dad, you know, the Chandler family doesn’t have much money left after all these Christmases paying for Aunt Rosalie’s medical bills.” Why did his tone sound like he was worried that his mother would have a difficult life after marrying Jensen? Shay glared at her brother. Realizing his mistake, Xavier quickly added: “I mean, Dad, you’ll be living alone now, so you should keep more money for yourself.” My eyes grew moist as I looked at my children, now grown and established, capable of standing on their own feet: “It’s alright. I still have you both.”

The next day, after Yvonne and I received our divorce certificate, we returned home. She packed her things in silence, preparing to move out. She moved quickly because there wasn’t much she wanted to take. She didn’t even take a single photo of our children. The Yvonne before me, though weathered by time and looking somewhat tired, now moved with the lightness of a young girl, her heart full of joy. My throat tightened as I broke the silence: “I heard… you’re going to Glasgow soon.” “The air there is dry. With your lung condition, you should take all the wild honey from the house.” Yvonne turned to look at me, hesitated for just a second, then refused: “No need. It’s not something I can’t live without.” “Since we’re separating, we should make a clean break. Let’s both move on with our lives.” I lowered my head with a bitter smile, my lips curled in self-mockery. Yvonne had a lung condition, an old ailment she developed while volunteering in the border regions. Many renowned doctors couldn’t cure it. During one of my field surveys, I’d discovered wild honey from a mountain farmer that could ease her discomfort. This honey was extremely precious, and the farmer wouldn’t sell it commercially. So every year, I would drive thousands of miles to convince the farmer to sell me a few bottles. All this time, I thought my efforts were sweet gestures of love, but to her, they meant nothing. Just like our forty-year marriage that I had always cherished was worthless in her eyes. Soon, Yvonne emerged with a small, light suitcase. She walked up to me, smiling as she said goodbye: “Thank you for everything, Joel.” “As for the other things in the house, do whatever you want with them. I don’t need anything else.” “Oh, and one last thing. You should have this back.” She placed a gold ring on the coffee table. It was the engagement ring I had given her, with a unique mortise and tenon structure I had crafted myself. Yet, apart from our wedding day, she never wore it again. When I asked why she didn’t wear it, she would casually dismiss the question, saying it was inconvenient. I thought she had lost it and was too embarrassed to tell me. Now I realized she probably saw the little ring as a shackle, restraining her. The golden gleam hurt my eyes. I stood up abruptly, struggling to breathe. It felt as if that tiny ring was choking me. The air seemed to freeze for a few seconds. Finally, I picked up her lightweight suitcase and walked toward the door: “Let me drive you to the airport. This will be the last time.” Yvonne was about to refuse when I opened the door and saw a car waiting outside. Xavier and Shay were already there. Our children told me to go home and rest; they would take their mother. The sound of the car engine was shut out by the closing door and soon faded away. I collapsed onto the sofa, watching as the sunlight on the floor gradually changed from white to yellow. The last rays of the setting sun illuminated an old vase in the corner of the living room. It was a wedding gift from Jensen and his then-girlfriend Rosalie forty years ago. Back then, it was an expensive and elegant present. I remember how Yvonne cried while holding the vase after unwrapping it the day after our wedding. At the time, I felt terrible, thinking I wasn’t capable enough to buy my wife something nice to maintain appearances. Now I understood her tears were for reuniting with an old flame, yet missing out on true love. No wonder Yvonne was never jealous of Rosalie’s wealthy background and deliberately grew close to her. After meeting at our wedding, they quickly became best friends—a friendship that lasted forty years. Even Xavier and Shay considered Rosalie and her husband as their godparents, maintaining an exceptionally close relationship. Those hazy memories filled every corner of this house. I spent several days in this depressed state, not saying a word. In my daze, I found my phone but couldn’t turn it on. With the broken phone in hand, I left the house for the first time in days. The familiar repair shop owner at the corner skillfully examined my phone while making small talk: “Teacher Garrison, what brings you here? Didn’t your whole family go to Glasgow together?” “The videos your wife posted on Facebook look amazing!”

I was lost in thought when my phone’s startup ringtone suddenly sounded. The repair shop owner handed my phone back, saying it was just a minor issue and wouldn’t charge me. I forgot even to say thank you as I hurried home. After plugging my phone in to charge, I immediately opened Yvonne’s Facebook and discovered she had posted numerous photos of Glasgow over the past few days. Clicking through them, I saw that every video featured her, Jensen, and our children Xavier and Shay. The four of them looked so harmonious together, just like a real family connected by blood. With trembling hands, I dialed Xavier’s number. I called a full ten times, but not once did he answer. I then tried calling my daughter Shay instead. After ringing for what felt like forever, she finally picked up, responding with an impatient “Hello.” I took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm, and asked: “Why are you all in Glasgow?” Shay’s voice instantly turned ice-cold: “Mom’s already divorced you, and my brother and I are grown up now. Where we go is absolutely none of your business.” “Mom suffered so much before, sacrificing everything for us. She deserves to enjoy life now, for once!” “You were always obsessed with work and never properly spent time with her. Now that she’s finally found her happiness, can’t you just shut up and be happy for her?” Her words were like knives stabbing straight into my heart. Hadn’t I worked tirelessly day and night for this family, for my two children? More than my wife’s departure, the coldness from the children I’d raised with such effort hurt me deeply. When Xavier was six, he was stung by a poisonous wasp while playing. I didn’t even have time to put on shoes before carrying him on my back for ten miles to the clinic. The blisters that wore into my feet took a full six months to heal. When Shay was ten and participating in a violin competition, her string broke the night before. I rode my bicycle around midnight, visiting every music store in the city, and finally had to knock on a craftsman’s door to get her violin fixed. Apparently, I was the only one who still remembered these things. My voice hoarse, I began to say: “I’m not…” Before I could finish, Jensen’s voice came through from the other end: “Joel, don’t be angry with the kids.” “Yvonne and I came to Glasgow because we wanted to visit places we’d been before, perhaps for the last time. The children are being filial, wanting to see where their mother once spent time.” “We’ve been Christmas brothers for so many years—you know, our special brotherhood. I know you’re magnanimous enough not to overthink this.” His voice remained as composed and gentle as ever, yet those light words somehow placed all the blame on me. I didn’t respond, almost losing control as I violently threw my phone. The call disconnected as the phone landed on the sofa. The already old screen immediately cracked. Yet this broken phone proved surprisingly “resilient.” Through the spider web of cracks, I caught sight of a comment on Yvonne’s Facebook post: “The two kids have called Jensen their ‘Christmas godfather’ for so long, he might as well be their real father now!” My vision blurred. I couldn’t help but think about Yvonne’s two pregnancies—both times she had initiated it and insisted we not use protection. I had thought it was a natural progression then, but now thinking back… A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. An editor from the publishing house stood outside, holding a document, and said: “Teacher Garrison, we’ve been unable to reach you by phone for days, so I took the liberty of visiting you in person.” “Regarding your upcoming book on ancient architecture, we need your signature to confirm adding Jensen as a co-author.” “Wait,” my voice came out dry and raspy, as if squeezed from my throat. “Adding Jensen as a co-author?” The editor paused momentarily, then quickly nodded and said: “Your wife has been handling all communication with us about the publication. She repeatedly assured us that you knew and agreed to this.” “But a couple of days ago, the editorial board issued a new requirement that we must obtain your personal signature before publication.” I shook uncontrollably, clutching those few thin pages of consent forms, feeling as if all the blood in my body had suddenly rushed to my head. But before I could speak, my vision suddenly went dark, and I passed out. Three days after being hospitalized, Yvonne and the two children finally showed up, taking their time as if in no hurry. When they saw I was awake, they showed no concern whatsoever. Yvonne immediately said: “Jensen contributed quite a few ideas to your book. Adding his name as a co-author is perfectly reasonable.” Looking at her self-righteous expression, my throat tightened as I replied: “Absolutely not.” That book was the culmination of nearly ten years of my work, climbing mountains and traversing valleys for research. Every word was infused with my heart and soul. As for Jensen, he had merely offered some suggestions on formatting. What right did he have to claim my authorship? Yvonne had clearly anticipated my objection. She gave a cold laugh and said: “If you don’t want to share, that’s fine. But I suggest you think about the children.” “If you refuse to give Jensen co-authorship, don’t blame the children for being unfilial, leaving you all alone and abandoned in your old age.” Hearing this, my heart completely sank to rock bottom. She was actually using the children to threaten me! I turned my gaze toward Xavier and Shay. Their expressions were somewhat uncomfortable, but they still sided with Yvonne: “Come on, Dad. You’ve published so many books already. What’s the big deal about adding Jensen’s name to this one? We’re all family!” “You always say you love Mom and us, but you can’t even do this small favor.” I laughed out of sheer anger, looking at them coldly, and said: “Don’t call me Dad. It makes me sick.” “I’ve raised someone else’s children for decades, and now I have to share my life’s work with him too? I’m not an idiot!” Yvonne’s face transformed instantly with shock as she said: “What nonsense are you talking about?” With trembling hands, I pulled out the paternity test results from the drawer and threw them heavily in front of her, saying: “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Yvonne!” Yvonne stared blankly at the document, her face turning deathly pale. Xavier and Shay’s eyes widened in shock, and they instinctively said: “Dad, how… how did you find out?” Their reaction made it clear they had known all along they weren’t my biological children. That explained their sudden coldness toward me. I smiled bitterly, my eyes filled with frost, and said: “They say the love of nurturing is greater than the love of birth, but blood is thicker than water after all. I never expected to raise two ungrateful children who bite the hand that fed them.” “…My entire life has been nothing but a joke!” Shay lowered her head, unable to meet my eyes. Xavier, however, looked at me with contempt and said arrogantly: “Dad, we’re still willing to call you ‘Dad.’ Why make such a fuss about it?” “Just agree to share the authorship, and out of consideration for all these years together, when you die, we’ll still be there to break pottery at your funeral as tradition demands!” “Xavier, you—!” My anger could no longer be contained. I struggled to stand up when suddenly a sharp pain shot through my chest. The next second, I felt a warm sensation in my throat, and blood spattered onto the pristine white bedsheets. As their panicked voices faded around me, my consciousness gradually blurred and dissipated. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing in a festively decorated wedding chamber, filled with red ornaments. The brilliant morning sunlight streamed through the windows, and the sound of firecrackers echoed from a distance. I pushed open the door to see my parents, still in their prime years, looking at me with tears of joy in their eyes. Yvonne stood among the crowd wearing red attire, but her face was unusually pale. Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside—a scene I knew all too well: More than a dozen colleagues from work crowded into the newlywed’s room with gifts, congratulating me on my marriage. I stared intently at Yvonne, and sure enough, her gaze remained fixed on the tallest figure in the crowd. Jensen and Rosalie entered arm in arm, smiling as they presented an elegantly wrapped vase, saying: “Joel, congratulations on your marriage. May you and Mrs. Garrison have a hundred years of harmony and children soon!” Jensen’s hand, extended toward me for a handshake, felt warm to the touch. This wasn’t a dream—I had been reborn! Still dazed, I mechanically reached out to accept the gift. The next moment, Yvonne suddenly pushed through the crowd, rushed forward, and smashed the vase on the floor. Everyone gasped in shock, but only I saw the determination in her eyes. Yvonne—she had been reborn too. Then, with fingers white from tension, she forcefully pulled Jensen away from Rosalie and unhesitatingly took his hand. “I’m not going through with this wedding!” “I’m going to marry the man I truly love!”

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