Chapter 6 — Blindly Dutiful

Looking at how cold your hands are, and you still refuse to wear the gloves I bought you. Did he give you a hard time? Did everything go smoothly?

Feeling the warmth at my fingertips, I could not help but curve my eyes into a smile.

Not at all. He certainly did not dare to say much to me. The moment the signatures dried, he scurried away in a panic.

My mother was amused by my words, reaching out to gently pinch the tip of my nose before bursting into laughter herself. The days that followed were the most peaceful I had experienced in years. I declined all unnecessary tasks, asking my boss for permission to work remotely, and dedicated much more time to staying by my parents' sides. Even when the three of us simply sat together on the sofa in the evenings without exchanging a word, an overwhelming sense of tranquility washed over me. My father’s health steadily improved; during a follow-up checkup, the doctor confirmed that his cancerous cells were exceptionally well-controlled. As long as he maintained his current state, he could comfortably live a long life alongside the illness. Smiles blossomed on my mother's face more frequently, and she even enrolled in the neighborhood’s square dancing troupe, heading out to practice with a buoyant spirit every single day.

My own career was soaring just as smoothly. The project proposal I had stayed up all night crafting earlier was met with high praise from upper management. Not long after my divorce, I was promoted to department head, accompanied by a substantial raise.

Meanwhile, the life of my ex-husband, Ethan, had plunged into an absolute abyss. Within the very first month following our separation, I heard he had committed a catastrophic blunder at his company. He had long coveted a promotion, and the partnership project with our firm was supposed to be his ultimate stepping stone. Even after losing the project, he refused to yield, throwing every ounce of his energy into fighting for it. In the past, out of marital devotion, I had always prepared vital background information for him in advance, even helping him sidestep numerous potential mistakes. But post-divorce, I naturally ceased providing such a safety net. Without me propping him up from behind, the new project report Ethan scrambled together was riddled with errors. Not only did he miss out on the promotion, but he also received a severe tongue-lashing from his superiors, wiping out his quarterly bonus entirely. Driven mad by rage, he lost his grip on reality, roaming the halls of the company to hurl insults at me. He convinced himself that I had destroyed everything he had worked for. Yet no one else knew that those achievements were triumphs I had bought with my own rest and leisure, while he had long taken them all for granted.

Once I confirmed that he was utterly beyond recovery, I stopped paying attention to him altogether, only occasionally catching wind of how miserable his existence had become. Bearing the brunt of external frustrations, Ethan naturally brought his foul moods back home. Following yet another explosive argument with his mother, the older woman suffered a stroke out of pure fury. Nowadays, Ethan had to work by day, and spend his nights returning home to wash his mother, feed her meals, and massage her atrophied limbs. He managed only three or four hours of sleep each night, causing him to wither away visibly, his hair turning more than half-gray. The man who used to step out with every fold of his clothes immaculate now frequently roamed about in disheveled attire, lacking even the time to shave his beard. With household expenses multiplying overnight, Ethan was forced to take up food delivery after clocking out from his day job, often laboring until the small hours of the morning before dragging himself back. Yet even with all that toil, they remained perpetually destitute. I merely shook my head, viewing it all as the retribution he so richly deserved.

One afternoon three months later, just as I returned home carrying bags of groceries, I spotted a familiar figure squatting near the base of our apartment building. His clothes were rumpled and his hair resembled a bird's nest. Had it not been for his distinct facial features, I genuinely would not have recognized that this man, aged twenty years beyond his years, was Ethan. The moment he caught sight of me, his eyes lit up, brimming with a mix of awkwardness and guilt as he slowly rose to his feet and shuffled toward me.

Nia. Could you... spare a few minutes of your time to talk with me?

I set the grocery bags down, showing no inclination to invite him inside.

Say whatever you have to say. I am busy.

He rubbed his palms together, his eyes gradually turning bloodshot.

Nia, I know what a complete bastard I was back then. I failed you, and I failed your father as well—

You do not need to say these things to me, I cut him off. We are divorced now. Whatever concerns you has nothing to do with me.

He spoke up anxiously, his voice already trembling with tears.

I know, I know you do not want to see me. But I truly regret it now, Nia. Every single day of these past three months, I have lived in agony. Back then, I was utterly blind, brainwashed by my mother into believing how hard it was for her to raise me alone, never once showing empathy for you or caring about your feelings. Because of her, I even abandoned you on the highway and nearly got your father killed—

Hot tears streamed down his face, pattering against the pavement one by one.

Ever since my mother suffered the stroke, having to juggle work and her care every single day has made me realize just how effortless my life used to be. Remembering all the things you silently did for me behind the scenes makes me want to slap myself twice over.