Chapter 1

My wife Catherine Reynolds skipped our son's funeral to pick up her old flame at the airport.

Worse, I was dying too.

In my final days, I chose to let her go.

But after I died, why did she lose her mind?

1

Ian died.

From a chubby little toddler, he turned into a cold jar of ashes.

At the funeral, people came and went, offering their sympathies, some genuine, some not. I overheard their whispers.

"Poor kid, gone at three, and his mother's not even here."

"Sebastian's just a son-in-law who married into the family. Ian was adopted. Catherine doesn't care. She went to pick up her old flame from the airport. If it weren't for Timothy dumping Catherine back then, Sebastian would've never had a chance to marry her."

"What a shame. The kid's dead, and the mother doesn't show. Being a son-in-law like that must be tough."

Yeah, if I'd known it would come to this, would I have insisted on marrying Catherine?

I couldn't find an answer.

I stood there, dazed, tormented by illness and grief, unable to tell reality from illusion.

Catherine's wedding vows still echoed in my ears, but her presence was nowhere to be found.

I stood frozen for a long time, as if it took me that long to realize the question. Where was Catherine?

Why didn't she come?

Oh, right. Timothy Palmer returned to the country today.

Because of my brain tumor, I collapsed. Ian, trying to find his mother, stumbled out the door and was hit by a car.

Just two days ago, my three-year-old boy nestled his face into my shoulder, calling me Daddy in his soft, warm voice.

Now, nothing remained.

After losing Ian, I finally understood what death meant.

The tenderness I felt when I first saw Ian, the joy of adopting him, the warmth of being called Daddy, and his puzzled questions about why Mommy was never home...

Those moments wove together in my mind, only to fade like old film, cracking into fragments.

They tore my heart to pieces.

I felt like a man drowning in a cocoon, struggling against threads that tightened until they suffocated me.

I had lost my child forever.

With some unspoken stubbornness, I stood until midnight, staring at the entrance.

Catherine never came.

2

Kelly Moore, the housekeeper, glanced at me cautiously and said Catherine was too busy.

Yeah, Catherine was busy.

I gave a bitter smile in my heart. So busy she didn't know I was gravely ill. So busy she couldn't attend her son's funeral.

But this marriage was something I begged for.

When Timothy abandoned Catherine, and her family pressured her to marry, she had no choice. So she settled for me, the suitor who'd been chasing her for years.

I knew it wasn't love, just stability.

She was used to me always waiting for her, knew I loved her desperately. Marrying me was the safest, easiest choice.

Even so, I mocked myself, "Sebastian, why does it still hurt so much? You knew from the start she didn't love you, didn't you?"

Maybe I was fooled by the fleeting moments of warmth over the past two years, thinking Catherine might actually love me.

Now that Timothy was back, I understood.

Compared to him, I was nothing.

But Ian was innocent. He deserved parents who cherished him, not this cold, early death.

Unconsciously, I fell asleep on the living room couch, clutching Ian's photo.

Catherine returned in the morning, in a rush.

It didn't feel like she was coming home. It felt like she was stopping by a hotel for a quick rest.

Seeing me with Ian's photo, she snapped, "What's the point of acting like this now? Why didn't you take better care of him before?"

I choked, unable to respond.

Should I have told her Ian ran out looking for her because I collapsed?

But Catherine didn't even know I had a terminal illness.

I wasn't sure she'd care if she did.

With difficulty, I said, "It's my fault..."

It was my fault for dragging Ian into my life.

She looked at me for a moment. "I never agreed to the adoption. It was an accident. Let it go."

Then she left for work.

As if Ian wasn't her son, as if he'd never called her Mommy.

How could Catherine's heart be so cold?

I gave a bitter laugh, my low voice echoing in the empty living room.

I chased her for years, and she barely glanced at me.

Why would Ian be any different?

I was greedy, thinking I could have a normal, happy future with Catherine.

What a ridiculous confidence.

Ian was an unwanted child, like I was.

I thought bringing him home would bring us happiness, but people like us were born to be unloved.

So Ian was gone, and I was dying.

Catherine's coat lay on the couch. After years of watching her, I knew every strand of her hair, every piece of clothing.

She didn't look like a mother who'd just lost a child. The coat was almost festive.

I could sense the joy she felt picking up Timothy.

And then, a faint whiff of cedarwood cologne drifted from it.

A familiar men's scent.

Timothy's favorite.

3

Catherine went to work.

The only daughter of the prominent Reynolds family was always busy.

Like countless days and nights before, I was alone at home.

I decided to wash her coat.

When I picked it up, her phone fell out.

Before I could unlock it, it rang. Timothy. "Hey, I accidentally left my phone with Catherine yesterday. I'll come by to grab it. Sebastian, is that you? Long time no see. Can you drop it off at the office? I'm with Catherine."

Timothy, just like when we were kids, loved taking everything from me.

My childhood, my mother, now my wife.

At the office, I saw Catherine and Timothy laughing together, her face lit with a rare, carefree smile I hadn't seen since we married.

With me, she was always composed, distant.

So this was how she was with Timothy?

Timothy saw me, smirked, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

Catherine was tying his tie.

I'd begged her countless times to tie mine, like couples in TV shows.

She always brushed me off, cold and annoyed, saying, "I run a huge company. I don't have time for this. The housekeeper can do it. It's the same."

But was it so hard for my wife to tie my tie?

If she hated it, what was this scene?

Her back was to me. I couldn't see her face.

But the tie was painfully familiar, the same one she'd once given me.

Same tie. Could the role of husband be just as interchangeable?

My heart felt soaked in bitter wine.

Unwilling to dwell on it, I handed the phone to the receptionist and left.

It wasn't that she couldn't do it. She just didn't want to do it for me.

Ian.

Daddy might not be able to bring Mommy home after all.

4

Back home, I mechanically opened a box of pastries from Holliland Bakery.

Catherine's favorite. I always bought them for her when I passed by.

I was distracted driving, but I still brought them home.

Loving Catherine had been my habit for years.

At dinner, Catherine came home. She sat at the table, handed me car keys, and said casually, "Got you a new model. Were you at the office today?"

I stared at her for a moment, then smiled as if it didn't matter. "Just picked up some pastries. Let's eat."

Seeing the pastries, Catherine let out a small sigh of relief.

Just like before.

No matter when she came home, I always had pastries ready, waiting for her after work.

That night, Catherine nestled into my arms as we slept.

It had been a long time since we were this close.

I knew it was just guilt, a hollow gesture.

Before, I would've been overjoyed at her affection.

Now, it felt like a bone-deep chill.

The tumor in my spine sent dull waves of pain, like a hammer striking endlessly.

Catherine fell asleep. I held her and opened my eyes in the dark.

I didn't even like cars. She never knew.

Looking at the wife I'd chased for years, I wanted to ask her did she ever love me.

5

I met Catherine like something out of a cheesy TV drama.

A bullied boy saved by a bold, radiant girl.

From then on, Catherine lived in my world, and no one else mattered.

I watched her get driven to school, watched her win competitions, watched her hair dance in the sunlight, and watched her fall in love with Timothy.

Timothy, my half-brother, was lucky.

As a kid, our mother loved him. As an adult, Catherine did too.

I had nothing.

No, I had Ian.

But now he was gone.

I had nothing left.

I decided to start writing a diary to record my life.

6

The pain grew stronger. What used to be occasional aches turned into constant torment.

My waist felt like a wedge had been driven under my skin, grinding me down every second.

Maybe the pain was too much, but I suddenly thought of my mother.

When I was young, she abandoned me. I didn't blame her.

A violent husband and crushing poverty-who could endure that?

She was just an ordinary woman.

I knew she was kind once. She used to fan away the summer mosquitoes while I slept.

But after I turned five, she left. She built a new family and had Timothy.

No one stayed up to watch me sleep anymore.

Years passed, and her hair turned gray at the temples.

From a corner, I saw Timothy walking with her, shopping.

My wife, Catherine, was with them.

They looked like a loving family.

My mother forgot her bag at the café. I quietly followed, slipping a bankbook inside.

It held eighty percent of my savings. With my condition worsening, I wouldn't need it.

Just as I finished, the three of them came back for the bag.

Catherine saw me, and her face went pale.

So she did feel something was wrong?

I smiled, handed the bag to my mother, who didn't recognize the stranger as her long-abandoned son.

"This is yours. Keep it safe." I turned, pretending not to know Catherine or Timothy, and went home.

Timothy knew I was her son from the start. That's why he targeted me, hated me.

He didn't need to.

My mother had long forgotten me.

7

That evening, Catherine came home with roast goose from Palatin's.

I once said it was good.

We sat like any loving couple, eating, chatting about the day.

We both avoided mentioning the scene from earlier.

I once thought if I died from my illness, Catherine could be with Timothy, and I'd wish them well.

So why did seeing them today feel so bitter?

I realized I wasn't entirely okay with it.

I wasn't okay with everyone else finding happiness.

Everyone but me.

That night, Catherine nestled in my arms again.

She didn't know I didn't even like greasy food like roast goose.

I only said I did because she liked it.

But to Catherine, the car, the goose-they were all the same.

Just objects to ease her guilt.

Listening to her soft breathing, I couldn't hold back. "Catherine, do you remember your wedding vows? No matter sickness or poverty, you'd always let me be your husband. You'd always love me."

Her breathing paused.

After a long silence, she pressed her face to my chest, soothing me. "Don't think too much. Sleep. I remember."

My heart sank.

I knew what her pause and comfort meant.

Catherine hated lying.

But this time, she lied to me.

She wouldn't cheat, but she'd always carry Timothy in her heart.

8

After that day, the busy head of the Reynolds family started coming home for dinner regularly.

During another meal I'd set out, a familiar dizziness hit me.

I forced myself to say, "Go ahead and eat. I need the bathroom."

I stumbled in and collapsed.

My condition was worsening fast.

The terror of a brain tumor was how it crept along your nerves, spreading through people's body. Even chemotherapy only delayed it. As long as I lived, it would grow back like weeds.

Until the host died.

When I woke, I checked my phone. Half an hour had passed.

Fainting meant the tumor had likely spread from my spine.

I crawled back, sat at the table.

Catherine had finished eating and was sipping coffee.

As I sat, she mentioned taking me to an island vacation once her work slowed down.

Since we married, I'd always wanted to go, but she was too busy.

"There's a gala in a couple of days. Are you going?" she asked.

Knowing my condition was bad enough to cause fainting, I smiled. "No time. I'll pass."

I knew Timothy, fresh back in the country, needed connections.

A rare event like that... Catherine, would you take him?

9

I dragged myself to the gala anyway.

Maybe I was a fool, desperate to see how far Catherine would go for Timothy.

Watching them laugh and talk, I humiliated myself.

I was pale, gaunt, my suit hanging off my frame, nothing but bones. I didn't match Catherine.

Not like Timothy did.

Maybe she saw me standing grimly on the sidelines. Her face changed.

She said something to Timothy and started toward me.

Maybe to explain, maybe to confront me.

I didn't want to hear it.

I smiled at her and walked out.

10

I started the car in a daze.

My parents' abandonment, Ian's death, Timothy's smugness flashed in my mind, settling on Catherine's face, smiling at him.

Half-conscious, I drove home. In the living room, I realized I'd bought pastries from Holliland Bakery again.

Angrily, I threw them on the floor. The food spilled everywhere.

Like my two-year marriage, it was a ruined mess.

How could everyone abandon me?

Catherine was my wife. Why wasn't she by my side?

I screamed silently, stomping the pastries to bits.

This damn habit-I didn't even like them!

I knocked a glass off the table. It shattered.

I didn't like roast goose or cars either! I didn't care for any of it!

Eyes burning, I tore the living room apart.

It wasn't enough.

I grabbed a glass shard, cutting my arm. Warm blood spilled.

Why didn't it hurt?

I slapped myself hard.

The sound echoed in the empty room.

My cheek stung, then swelled faintly.

I laughed hoarsely. It did hurt.

"Sebastian, you're pathetic!" I cursed myself.

Something pressed against my chest. I pulled it out-Ian's photo.

He was smiling up at me.

I could almost hear him call me Daddy in his sweet voice.

The storm in my mind quieted. I calmed down and cleaned up the mess.

11

Soon after, Catherine came home. Seeing the slap mark on my face, she hurriedly explained. "Sebastian, don't overthink it! You said you weren't coming. Timothy said he needed the opportunity, so I brought him along. Just helping a friend."

She looked at me carefully. "I love you. I remember the wedding vows you mentioned. Really."

I stared at her, silent.

She suddenly kissed me fiercely, eyes red, a rare passion.

I thought she was always cold with me.

My heart didn't stir. I smiled gently at her. "I know you mean it."

I sighed silently. Catherine remembered the vows. She just couldn't keep them.

From start to finish, I was the only one who took them seriously.

She said she loved me, so why did my chest feel like a gaping hole, letting in a cold draft?

12

Today was our wedding anniversary.

Catherine prepared a lavish dinner.

But with my condition spreading, I could barely eat.

She poured me red wine. "Sebastian, let's live well. I'll come home more. We can take that island trip later."

She looked up at me, as beautiful as ever. "Just stay okay. You don't know how scared I was at the gala. You looked like you were fading away."

I was about to say something when her phone rang.

Timothy.

Her brow furrowed, like it was urgent.

She avoided my eyes, grabbed her coat, and headed out.

At the door, she turned. "Sebastian, next time, we'll celebrate properly..."

She didn't need my permission.

Abandoning me never required my consent.

I should've known that since childhood.

Looking at the wine and cake, I swept them to the floor.

The cake soaked in wine, forming an ugly, crying face.

13

I sat for a while, then stood.

My phone pinged. A message from Timothy. "Thanks for Catherine's help. It's too far, so tell her I said she won't be home for a bit."

Then, out of nowhere, he added, "It's still me."

I knew what he meant. As a kid, he spread rumors to the bullies who tormented me, making my teenage years hell.

All because I secretly visited my mother.

I only saw her hug Timothy as they left.

Back then, he warned me. "Why not stay in your corner like a rat? Why look for my mom? She's my mom, not yours. Stop fighting. I'll always beat you."

Years later, Timothy still thought he'd always win.

I climbed upstairs, wrote my final diary entry, and my will.

23-Apr-20

Our anniversary. Catherine went to Timothy again.

I tried to hold on, but it was useless.

Timothy thought taking Catherine meant he'd won.

He was wrong.

Only death is eternal. No one can compete with the dead.