But it’s all for her.
Hiding behind a corner, I let myself cry quietly.
My name is Ethan Brooks. I’m the kind of man who blends into a crowd—ordinary and forgettable.
Back in vocational college I joined a charity volunteer program and met a girl.
She was my age, studying at a local school in Seattle, and her name was Anna Parker.
Her name was warm—and so was she.
To be honest, what first drew me to her was, well, physical attraction.
Her skin was porcelain, her figure ridiculously perfect.
Rounded where it should be, slim where it needed to be.
Her face was pretty, with a sweet, approachable kind of beauty.
I thought, if we had a daughter, she’d be adorable.
After the event we added each other on WorkChat.
After I pursued her relentlessly, she finally became my girlfriend.
I’m from Pinebrook County; Anna is from the South too.
Those first months together, we could talk for hours.
Anna was busy writing her thesis. I told her, once she graduated we’d move in together.
“We can rent a one-bedroom or a big studio. Two people will be fine,” I said.
She flushed with excitement. “Great—then I can decorate our home.”
Hearing her say “our,” seeing her soft face, I felt a happy, tingling warmth in my chest.
Maybe this is what happiness feels like.
Before graduation I started furiously submitting resumes and hunting for work.
Being a vocational-college grad made the job market harsh. Most of my applications vanished into nothing.
I’d never really felt much about my schooling level until this. The more rejections I got, the more shame and self-blame piled up.
I began to regret not working harder before the college entrance exams. I even resented my parents for not having the means to help me get a bachelor’s degree… But that thought was quickly drowned by a deeper guilt.
Thinking of my hardworking, sunburnt, wrinkled parents who lived a simple rural life, I told myself I had no right to blame them.
Those dark days weren’t entirely without hope—some jobs would have me, but they were mostly commission-only gigs like insurance sales or realty agency. I didn’t take them.
First, I had no interest in sales. Second, I wanted Anna to feel secure. If I could land a steady, reliable job, then when she entered the workforce she wouldn’t have to worry.
Luckily, during that rough stretch Anna stayed by my side.
I thought about her, and she thought about me. When my resumes went unanswered, she encouraged me: “Ethan, you have to believe in yourself. You’re smart and hardworking; sooner or later you’ll make it.”
Her tone left no room for doubt. Her confidence made a grown man like me—six feet tall—feel like crying.
She didn’t just cheer me on with words; she took care of me in daily life too.
Every morning then I’d rush out with the milk she’d bought me and start another day of hustling.
Anna warmed me. There was someone in this world who believed in me, who admired me.
If she hadn’t been there, I don’t know if I would’ve stayed in Seattle.
Most things, I learned, turn around if you persist.
A week after graduation I finally got an interview invite from a well-known internet company. The role was entry-level customer service, but the base pay was decent—3,800 yuan. It might not mean much to others, but for a vocational grad like me with no experience it was solid. And the company’s name would look good on a resume.
The interview went well. The night I got the offer I took Anna to Little Don’s at Arbor Plaza for dinner.
I’d walked past Arbor Plaza many times but never gone in. Local friends said it was near the embassy district, one of Seattle’s posh spots. I always felt too provincial and too broke to even walk in.
But now things felt different. I had Anna.
We were still poor, but with her beside me I had more confidence facing the world.
Sitting in Little Don’s, I started to say I’d always wanted to try Don’s Signature—but trailed off.
Anna read the hint and smiled kindly. “Next time we’ll go to Don’s, not Little Don’s.”
We both knew Little Don’s was the cheaper version. We’d checked before: the per-person price at Little Don’s was about half of Don’s Signature—perfect for us.
Even so, the bill that night was nearly 400 yuan. I told her not to worry—it was my treat. Anna’s smile lit up the place.
Seeing her—such a pretty girl, dressed up, sitting in a bright, spacious restaurant savoring the food—made me happier than any solo night out.
I couldn’t help thinking: money really matters. With money I could give Anna more security and happiness. I wanted to keep seeing that relaxed, joyful look on her face.
My luck actually began to shift.
After a year as a customer service rep I met a helpful person. One day I received a user complaint about a software issue. I contacted the responsible colleague on WorkChat, but they didn’t reply, and the user was getting angrier and angrier. So I stopped the ticket and went in person to find the colleague.
It took ten minutes round trip between work zones. On my way back, crossing the corridor bridge between departments, I saw a man standing by the window making a call. He spoke loudly and fast. Passing behind him I overheard what he said.
“Manager Turner, can’t your people take their jobs seriously? I said I wanted someone who’s done customer service, young and sharp. I can offer a Senior Operations Specialist role. What are these candidates you’re sending me?”
I knew our HR recruiter was Manager Turner. This man was berating him as if lecturing a child. He was clearly a mid-level leader—Operations head, named Jason Stone.
My heart raced. Jason’s hiring requirements matched me perfectly: customer-service experience, young, quick. More importantly, he’d mentioned a Senior Operations Specialist position—salary around 8,000 to 10,000 a month, not including potential hefty year-end bonuses—rumor said Operations employees could get up to six months’ pay in annual bonus.
These opportunities felt untouchable to a lowly customer-service rep—yet fate had me face that difficult client and the unresponsive colleague today. Was it all to make me overhear Jason’s call? To tell me an opportunity was in front of me, if I’d only reach for it?
Staring at Jason Stone’s avatar on WorkChat, my brain bubbled with excitement. I took three seconds to steady myself, glanced around to make sure no one noticed, and tapped his profile. A chat window opened. My hands trembled as I typed: “Mr. Stone, do you currently have a headcount available?”
I didn’t mention I’d overheard him. I’d learned that at work, people care about results, not how you got there.
What happened next surprised me. Jason replied affirmatively. I hurried home that night, whipped up a resume, and sent it to him. The next day he had me come to his office.
He looked thirty-four or thirty-five, serious and composed. His questions didn’t stump me. It felt like an internal transfer interview. After our talk he nodded and said directly he thought I’d fit well in Operations and that he’d personally speak to HR about transferring me.
I wanted to shout, “Yes!”
That afternoon I left early. Not to go home right away, but to the local market. I bought six hairy crabs and other ingredients. I wanted to cook a celebratory feast for Anna when she got home.
By then Anna had graduated too—one year after me. I’d been a three-year vocational student; she’d finished a bachelor’s degree. Compared to me, she had it easier finding a job. She studied liberal arts and received three offers. She chose Hearth & Home Co. as a digital content coordinator.
When I finished the meal and anxiously awaited her homecoming, she walked in looking defeated.
She’d only been at the job a few days. What had happened?
“Babe, what’s wrong?” I asked cautiously.
Anna said nothing. She looked up, her big eyes full of tears. It was like she couldn’t hold them back anymore; she burst into sobs and collapsed into my arms.
3
By the time we sat back down, the food on the table had gone cold.
Anna sobbed as she told me everything that happened at her company.
There was an older guy at her office — a man in his forties.
Local, from a relocation household.
The company wasn’t big, maybe around a hundred people.
From the moment Anna started, this guy had his eye on her.
He first asked her straight up for her number.
When she refused, he found her on WorkChat through a group and sent a friend request.
Anna felt awkward. She was new and didn’t want to seem difficult, so she accepted.
That was the mistake. After she accepted, he started messaging her day and night — mundane life updates, crude midlife jokes, those health-and-aging posts older men like.
She kept putting up with it.
On the subway home after work today, she got another message from him.
“Brother, please stop. My boyfriend will see this. It’s embarrassing.”
Anna couldn’t hold it in anymore; she spoke plainly.
A minute later he replied, “Perfect if he sees it. I like you. I’ll pursue you openly. Let your boyfriend know — I’ll compete with him fairly!”
Anna showed me her phone. She opened the chat with his account name, FreeSpirit88, and handed it to me.
“At first I thought I could handle it, so I didn’t tell you,” she said, head bowed like she’d done something wrong.
Seeing his screen — FreeSpirit88 — I felt my blood rush to my head. Stupid bastard.
I told Anna if she wanted, I’d go meet this asshole right now and teach him a lesson.
She looked terrified. “Please don’t get angry, don’t act impulsively…”
My fist clenched tighter, my nails digging into my palm. “Scum like that needs a beating to snap out of it.”
Anna collapsed against me and cried. She smelled faintly of milk body wash, and the scent calmed me a little.
“I didn’t tell you before because I knew how hot-tempered you are,” she whispered into my ear, trying to steady her voice. “Please don’t do anything.”
I swallowed my anger. “What am I supposed to do? Which man could swallow something like this?”
“But if you really go beat him up, what then? What about you?” Anna’s tears fell salty onto my cheek.
All I could think was how much I wanted to protect her.
She went on, trying to reassure me. “Don’t worry. We live in a society ruled by law. I can tell him clearly to stop. What can he do to me?”
She explained he wasn’t in her department — he was in a different team, business development. He wasn’t HR, so he couldn’t make trouble for her at work.
To prove it, right there she typed into the chat with FreeSpirit88: “I’m not interested. Don’t contact me again. If you do, I’ll report you to the company and the police.”
Under my watchful eyes, she hit send without hesitation, then blocked him.
After all that, she seemed calmer.
She tucked stray hair behind her ear, picked up her chopsticks, and said, “The food’s cold, babe. Could you warm it up? Let’s eat.”
She had become so poised, so composed — only breaking down when she absolutely had to.
When I carried the dishes to the kitchen to reheat them, I felt a little dazed.
It wasn’t that we never fought. We’d had bitter, heartbreaking arguments before.
Back then, Anna could be sharp, and she’d hurt me.
I remember when we first decided to move in together. We spent ages hunting for a cheap place.
Eventually a tiny agency in Riverbend showed us a listing: a roughly 430-square-foot studio for rent at $290 a month. Practically a steal.
But why so cheap? I had a bad feeling and told the agent I wanted to see it first.
Anna was more eager than I was, pressuring me to book it immediately. The rent was too tempting.
I’d just graduated, used to living in dorms, and had no renting experience. I caved. After only watching the video the agent sent, I paid the deposit and three months’ rent.
Anna was ecstatic, ready to embrace our new life.
But as soon as we moved in, I sensed something off.
There were little plastic bowls in the studio, in the kitchen, in the bathroom. In them were small black pellets — insecticide.
This place had been roach-infested.
I wanted to cancel the lease right away, but the agency was sketchy. Their reputation online was full of complaints: not refunding deposits, threatening tenants. When I called the agent, no answer. We couldn’t reach the landlord. The agency’s policy was to prevent direct contact between tenant and owner.
I told Anna we’d stay one night and see how it went. I didn’t tell her my suspicions — maybe the roaches were already gone. Telling her might only worry her.
She smiled with those big, innocent eyes and had no idea.
That night she got the bed ready early and said she wanted some “passion.”
After she went to shower, I sat on the bed still uneasy about roaches.
A moment later she screamed from the bathroom: “Ethan! Ethan!”
I burst in. Anna stood there naked, holding the shower head, eyes fixed on the corner where a cluster of big and small roaches crawled — glossy dark brown shells.
Without a word, I grabbed insecticide from the half-unpacked luggage and sprayed until they were gone. Anna had already bolted into the room.
That night was the worst fight we’d ever had. I blamed her: if she hadn’t pushed me to book that place so fast, we wouldn’t have ended up in a roach house.
She was furious. “Ethan, do you even get it? This all comes down to you being poor! If you had money we could rent in Brighton or Oakridge, a nice furnished place. No roaches! Why did I have to move to Riverbend into this crappy studio? It was to save money! And now you blame me? Do you have any conscience?”
Her words chilled me. Was it my fault for being poor? I was trying — hustling for side jobs, applying everywhere — but reality was harsh. I was ordinary, and I couldn’t change that overnight. Could she not see my effort?
After that, I ignored her until the next morning. When the alarm rang I groggily sat up and found Anna sitting perfectly still beside me, her eyes swollen like two peaches.
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she said, tearful. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”
I sighed. She hadn’t been entirely wrong, and most of the time she supported me. During the months I couldn’t find steady work, she kept me going.
I couldn’t really be mad.
“Don’t hold a grudge overnight, you goof,” I joked, pulling her into my arms. She buried her face in my chest and sobbed quietly.
4
The girl who sent that firm message to FreeSpirit88 wasn’t the impatient, rash kid she used to be. Only a year had passed, but she’d grown up. I was glad.
Maybe it was paranoia, but after she fell asleep I unlocked her phone with her fingerprint.
She’d been unusually calm; that didn’t jibe with the Anna I knew, and it made me uneasy.
I opened WorkChat and looked through the messages from FreeSpirit88. Everything matched what she’d told me, and I breathed easier. For a moment I felt ashamed for snooping.
Just as I was about to lock the phone, I noticed a group chat icon on FreeSpirit88’s profile: “Gossip Girls.” The preview showed the last message sent at 11:03 PM by Sophie Hale — I knew Sophie from Anna’s college.
Her message read: “Exactly — if you move out you’ll have to pay more.”
My gut said this group chat might involve me.
I opened it.
Anna had told them briefly about the middle-aged coworker and then said, “Ethan got so mad, it was scary. I almost didn’t want to be near him. I told the guy not to contact me anymore, and then Ethan calmed down.”
“That guy” — apparently not “a pervert” or “creeper” but “big brother” — sounded wrong to me coming from Anna. Hearing her call him that made me uncomfortable.
Sophie and another group member, Maya Lewis, were comforting her. But their replies stung.
Maya wrote: “Ethan’s being way too sensitive. He’s overthinking.”
Sophie added: “This is normal. If no one’s chasing you, you must not be attractive.”
Anna replied: “I thought maybe I should move out for a while to cool off, but that’s too much hassle.”
Sophie’s line — “Exactly — if you move out you’ll have to pay more” — came right after. After that Anna didn’t reply. Judging by the timestamps, she chatted with her girlfriends, then came back and cuddled up to me.
Sophie’s comment had a point. The rent we pay now is $560. I cover $400 of it; Anna only pays $160. That wasn’t her idea — I insisted. I’m the man; I should shoulder more. I was willing.
But over the past year my monthly salary had been only $380.
Paying $400 each month for rent was beyond my means.
But before I graduated I’d saved up from part‑time jobs, and even after I became a customer service rep I used my downtime to pick up extra shifts.
Bit by bit, I scraped together enough from my paycheck and savings to cover the rent.
I picked a pretty pricey place on purpose—good location, convenient for both of our commutes. And, honestly, a little because of that whole “roach room” incident.
I wanted a nicer place.
I didn’t want my girl suffering like that again, and I didn’t want to hear those hurtful things come out of her mouth.
I cherished what Anna and I had like it was my own life.
So when I saw those messages in Anna’s girls’ group, my heart went cold.
But the next second I reminded myself, “Ethan Brooks, think straight. You and Anna are tied together.”
What our relationship was built on was a kind of symbiosis.
It couldn’t be blown apart by a few idle words or passing thoughts.
In a brutal, bustling city, ordinary people like us survive by leaning on each other.
So why pick apart the person you rely on?
Nobody’s perfect.
Anna had been there for me through my lowest points. Her care and kindness were never forgotten.
Even though she’d hurt me sometimes, I wouldn’t scorn her, and I certainly wouldn’t abandon what we’d built or the future we dreamed of together.
Now I only blamed myself for doing something stupid—snooping through her phone.
If you don’t see it, it didn’t happen—that’s the mature stance couples should take when suspicion creeps in.
I locked my phone again, plugged it in, then carefully eased back beside her.
The familiar scent of her milk‑scented body wash relaxed me instantly.
I wrapped my arms around my girl from behind and fell asleep.
Not long after, Anna and I faced a different kind of test.
The Qingming holiday was right around the corner.
I’d already decided to take Anna back to my hometown for the break.
My province was famous in spring for its fields of canola flowers.
Last spring Anna had said she wanted to go see them.
But back then my customer service job had just been made permanent and I thought I should stabilize work before planning a trip.
I remembered clearly how she’d looked a little upset when I said that, but she was sensible, so she didn’t press.
This year I was determined to take her.
I asked Jason Stone for an extra day off—on the day before the holiday started.
As soon as the leave was approved I called Anna.
The call rang once and she hung up.
She must’ve been busy at work.
So I sent her a message.
“Babe, let’s go see the canola fields for Qingming!”
A while later she replied: “Huh? Okay, which day?”
I told her I’d taken the day before off and asked her to do the same so we could leave early.
I told her I wanted to show her where I grew up—there were beautiful lakes and flowers, perfect in spring. She’d love it. We could relax together.
After a pause she replied: “Okay, you book the hotel.”
Her message hit me.
I’d completely overlooked something important.
Bringing Anna home—did that mean bringing her to meet my parents?
Honestly, I’d only thought about taking her to see the scenery. I’d been so focused on pleasing my girl that I hadn’t thought of anything else.
Suddenly my parents’ dark, weathered faces and the deep, chiseled wrinkles flashed in my mind… I felt guilty.
My mom had even called two days earlier asking when I could come home. She said my dad missed me—said he cried out “my good boy” in his dreams. I’m an only child.
When I was little I’d run all over the hills and my parents would shout behind me, “Stop, my good boy!”
They were gentle people and rarely punished me.
My dad’s old now and proud. When my mom calls, he won’t pick up unless my mom pretends to scold him—then he shuffles over and mumbles a couple lines.
Thinking about him made my chest ache.
And Anna’s offhand “book a hotel” line felt clear: stay in a hotel, don’t go to your family’s house.
Which meant she didn’t want to meet my parents.
I sat at my computer, unsure how to reply.
Maybe I was quiet too long, because Anna sent another message: “Or I’ll book the hotel?”
Of course I didn’t let her book it.
I was paying for the whole trip.
On the plane Anna strapped in and leaned back, satisfied.
“Thanks, Ethan,” she teased. “Thanks for taking your sister out to play.”
“Don’t be so formal, sis,” I teased back. “This is my stomping ground—we’ve got to show good host energy.”
I didn’t tell her it was my first time on a plane. Growing up, I’d taken green‑sleepers and hard seats; if I could afford the three‑tier berth on occasion I would, but usually I’d scrimp and take a hard seat. I convinced myself being young and strong meant I could handle it.
But I wouldn’t make my girlfriend suffer that way.
There’s no airport near my hometown. We’d fly to Springfield, then take a bus to Pinebrook County.
When I told Anna about the transfers she made a face.
“This is so much trouble. Aren’t there other canola fields? Do we have to go to your hometown?”
I had the feeling she’d been holding that in a while.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Of course I knew. Wuyuan was more famous for canola fields than Pinebrook, but I wanted to go home, so I kept quiet.
She shrugged and said nothing more.
After a few detours we arrived in Pinebrook.
The place I booked was a guesthouse.
Anna frowned. “A guesthouse? Will it be clean?”
But when we arrived she lit up.
The guesthouse was a classical courtyard with black tiles and white walls—old‑southern charm. A garden greeted you at the gate; past it a three‑story building blended classical garden design with modern touches, even an elevator.
The rooms were spotless.
Anna flopped onto the big double bed and sighed with delight. “Ah, this is so nice!”
After a short rest we headed to the canola fields.
It was a sea of gold stretching as far as the eye could see—pure, unsullied gold. Not the “gold everywhere” of Seattle; this felt clean and real. I startled myself with that thought.
“Ethan, don’t space out—come take my picture!” Anna called, already pushing into the flowers.
The stalks hid most of her as she moved through them, appearing and disappearing like a memory.
She stopped, turned, and waved me over—straw hat, delicate face tilted up, small arms wildly excited.
She was beautiful. All those flowers couldn’t compete.
The holiday hadn’t officially started yet; there weren’t many tourists. Off in the distance I could see Lake Pinebrook.
“Mom, Dad,” I said silently, “if you could meet my beautiful girlfriend, you’d be so happy.”
But I didn’t have the nerve to ask Anna outright.
My family lived in a small town. Even among other struggling households, ours was modest. My dad had been injured working construction in his forties—broke a leg and never fully recovered, still limps. My mom had no education and worked hard—tending the fields, selling vegetables and odds and ends at the market to make ends meet.
Still, they’d put me through college—an associate degree, but enough to make them proud. I’m the first in generations to go to college.
The thought made my vision blur. Tears wanted to fall. Thankfully Anna had run off into the flowers, so she didn’t see me in that moment.
The setting sun stroked the lake and the breeze made little ripples, like it was answering me and soothing my hurt.
We stayed in Pinebrook for two days.
On the last day, lying in the guesthouse bed, some guilty impulse made me secretly transfer a thousand dollars to my mom’s bank card.
Right after I hit send, my phone rang.
“Hey, my boy,” she said. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered, watching Anna blow-dry her long hair in the mirror. The dryer was loud—she probably couldn’t hear me.
“Why’d you send money for no reason?” my mom asked, half scolding.
“Just take it and spend it,” I said.
“All right, I’ll save it for you—use it to find a wife someday,” she teased, and someone called to her, so she hurried off the call.
“Who was that?” Anna asked as I hung up.
“My mom. She asked if I’ll be coming home soon.”
I said it on purpose, just to see how Anna would react.
Her expression changed. “Do you feel a little bad about not going back home when we came here?”
“A little,” I admitted, and nodded.
I still wanted to know whether she’d change her mind in the end.
Anna kept her head down and said nothing, like she was weighing something carefully.
Seeing her hesitate like that actually made me feel better.
I thought: of course—I’m the problem here.
I wasn’t honest enough, I didn’t say things directly, and I assumed how Anna would react, which is why I’d misunderstood her.
If I’d just asked her straight whether she was willing to meet my parents, maybe she’d have said yes.
But seeing her struggle like this meant she cared about it. It also meant she really cared about me.
While I was turning that over in my head, Anna looked up. There was something on her face I couldn’t name.
She chose her words deliberately and said, "How about this—I’ll go back to Seattle by myself today, and you go home to see your parents."
I admit it: in that instant, a huge piece of my heart shattered.
After waiting so long, this was the reply I got.
It turned out my worst suspicions were the closest to the truth.
Looking at this delicate, gentle girl in front of me, for the first time she felt like a stranger.
"Anna Parker."
I said her name—low, and even to my own ears it sounded foreign.
I’d always been gentle with her.
And Anna knew that when I used her full name like that, I was truly angry.
"Be honest. Have you never planned to meet my parents?"
I asked.
Her face flushed immediately. She struggled for a moment, then said, "I just think it’s too soon…"
"See. I was right," I sneered.
We froze in silence.
My heart had gone cold.
If she never intended to meet my parents, that meant Anna hadn’t thought about marrying me, about becoming my wife.
All this time, had it just been my wishful thinking?
Had I been the only one wanting to build a life with her?
Then what was I to her?
Just someone to ‘play with’?
Or perhaps merely a convenient, if rickety, life preserver she clung to while drifting in Seattle?
I wanted to ask her that outright.
But I couldn’t find the words.
Anna broke the stalemate first.
"So what if it’s true? If we aren’t at the marriage stage, I don’t want to meet your parents. What’s wrong with that?"
She said it calmly, measured, as if she were in full control—exactly the same demeanor she’d used the day she blocked that male coworker.
I hadn’t expected her to treat me like that or say those words.
Worse, I didn’t know how to argue.
Rationally, she was completely right.
By feelings and by reason, Anna had a valid reason not to go see my parents.
I had no right to criticize her on this. I knew that much.
So with a chest full of anger, we started the trip back.
We’d only been able to get plane tickets from Springfield back to Seattle, so Anna and I had to go from Pinebrook to Springfield first, then fly from Springfield-North Airport to Seattle.
The quickest way from Pinebrook County to Springfield was the intercity bus.
There were 19 buses a day from Pinebrook to Springfield, each taking about two and a half hours.
Pinebrook wasn’t big.
I had the one-in-nineteen luck.
I saw a familiar face in the bus terminal.
Peeking around a pillar in the waiting area, I glanced twice, then knew for sure it was my childhood friend and classmate, Lucas Reed.
Lucas and I were classmates through elementary and middle school.
I kept going to high school; Lucas quit early and, I heard, went to work in the south.
When I went home last Lunar New Year, my mom told me Lucas had made a lot of money down in Gulfport, married a local woman, and his bride price alone had been tens of thousands.
My mom fretted that our family couldn’t afford that kind of bride price if I ever married.
"Don’t worry about that," I told her. "Girls in Seattle are independent; they don’t need a bride price."
My parents laughed and said I was naive—no girlfriend yet, so how did I know about marriage? They said even if a girl didn’t ask for a bride price, her family might.
I didn’t say much, just smiled.
By then I’d been seeing Anna a while but thought it was too soon to tell my parents.
I believed Anna wouldn’t be the kind to ask for a bride price—of course I’d never shortchange her; I’d give whatever I could to send her off properly—but I thought she wouldn’t demand such a thing.
I felt that way not only because Anna wasn’t materialistic, but also because her family in a southern second-tier city was fairly well-off.
After One Year, He Betrayed Me
Her father was a doctor, her mother a teacher.
They were the town's middle class—cultured, refined.
I assumed such a family wouldn't force a poor son-in-law to produce a bride price or say, "If you can't pay, don't marry my daughter."
Everything I believed about the future rested on the assumption that Anna wanted and would marry me.
Lucas's appearance woke memories that, on the surface, had nothing to do with him—and it hurt.
I reflexively wanted to avoid him.
Not only because he seemed to be doing better than I was now, but because the Reeds were family friends with my parents.
If Lucas saw Anna and me together in Pinebrook, he'd likely tell his parents right away.
News in a small town travels faster than a mouse.
Once the Reeds knew, my parents would know soon after.
Their son returning home but not going into his parents' house would sadden them.
Better to pretend I hadn't seen my old friend.
But fate loves to toy with people.
The terminal was crowded; most seats were taken.
Anna noticed a woman glancing around and assumed she was about to get up, so she kept her eyes on her.
Sure enough, when they announced a bus to Crestfield was leaving, the woman hurried up.
I had just finished in the men's room and, trying to avoid Lucas, I swung slightly wide and headed toward Anna.
When she saw me, she shouted, "Ethan Brooks, there's a seat here!"
Hearing her call my name made me panic: this is bad.
Before I could answer, a hand slapped my shoulder hard.
I sighed, turned, and in half a second pasted on a face of surprise and delight.
"It's you!"
Lucas and I said it at the same time.
His surprise was genuine; mine was forced.
We exchanged small talk.
I quickly learned Lucas was on the same bus to Springfield.
Anna saw I was hesitating and came over.
"What's wrong?" she asked, slipping her arm into mine out of habit.
That meant she inevitably came face to face with Lucas.
He studied Anna up and down, his bold, ambiguous stare making me uneasy.
"Oh, who is this? Your wife?" he asked, a little too excited.
Anna frowned slightly at Lucas, who couldn't take his eyes off her.
I nodded to Lucas, saying nothing.
A flash of disgust crossed Anna's face, but she replaced it with a polite smile.
"Is he your friend?" she asked.
Before I could answer, Lucas jumped in, "We've been pals since we were kids."
Anna smiled, then appraised Lucas with a look I'd read perfectly. She'd noticed the knock-off Adidas tracksuit and fake knockoff sneakers.
I'm no expert on brands, but his outfit screamed counterfeit; it was obvious and tasteless.
From her expression I could tell she was looking down on him.
That made my feelings unbearably complicated.
I knew she despised Lucas, but I felt myself shamed by association.
Later it took me a long time to figure out why: Lucas represented my origins, the place I came from.
Even though I'd been in Seattle a long time, even though I had a stable job at a well-known company and a young, pretty girlfriend who'd gone to college in Seattle—none of that erased my background.
My base color—my roots—were Lucas and his blatant fake brands, my poor parents, and the offstage small towns beyond the canola fields.
I couldn't help it. Compared to Lucas, who had suddenly shown up and disrupted everything, I felt a hotter anger toward Anna.
Her expression made me feel humiliated, and that humiliation turned to fury.
I had the urge to grab her wrist and demand why she looked down on me, why she looked down on where I came from.
But I held myself back.
I wasn't that crazy or out of control.
Amid idle chatter, I tried several times to end the conversation with Lucas.
I failed.
My old friend was full of curiosity about my life now and wouldn't stop asking questions.
Just as I'd feared, he ended up calling his parents and telling them we'd come back to Pinebrook.
After he hung up, Lucas excitedly told me his parents wanted to call mine to congratulate them—"Your son's fiancée is really pretty."
"They haven't seen her yet?" he asked eagerly. "Or did she just leave home?"
I wanted to punch him in the face.
But I didn't.
My head was a jumble. I didn't know what to do next.
Go home with Anna to meet my parents? But she'd already said she wouldn't—she wasn't ready to decide whether she'd marry me.
Leave now? But once the Reed family spread the news my parents would be humiliated.
In family-centered towns, people can't understand why a son brings a girlfriend home and then refuses to go into his parents' house. Folks would call the son unfilial; they'd whisper that something was wrong with the parents if their son wouldn't enter the home.
While I was torn, Anna suddenly tugged my sleeve.
I looked down at her.
She squatted quickly.
"I can't—Ethan, my stomach hurts again."
Her face was in real pain.
That "again" was the clearest hint she could give me.
"Let's hurry to Springfield, to a big hospital…"
Maybe fearing I wouldn't understand, she made the hint explicit.
I got it.
At this point, her excuse was the most useful one.
I put aside my hurt, my grievance, and any questions for her and focused on getting us moving.
All I wanted was to get away — do exactly what Anna had asked: cut ties with that annoying childhood friend, and dodge any awkward questions or expectations from my parents.
I’d gotten used to bending to Anna’s moods.
Once she gave me an “order,” I followed it without thinking.
It had become almost automatic in my life.
I turned to Lucas, apologetic.
“Forgot to tell you—my girlfriend’s got terrible stomach cramps. I need to take her to Springfield for treatment.”
Lucas glanced at Anna, then at me.
I don’t know whether he really believed it, but in any case the meeting ended with him helping Anna onto the coach, the three of us taking the bus to Springfield, and saying goodbye in front of the hospital.
When Lucas’s figure finally faded and disappeared, I let out a long breath.
Then I turned and saw Anna standing behind me, completely back to her usual self, watching me with that look that said more than words.
“Let’s go. Don’t waste time,” she said.
She steadied the suitcase handle with one hand. “Hurry up to the airport.”
With that, she pulled her luggage without looking back and headed for a taxi waiting at the curb in front of the hospital.
We got back to Seattle around eleven at night.
By the time we closed the door to our little apartment, both Anna and I were exhausted.
I dropped my bags and dove straight into the bathroom to take a shower.
I needed to clear my head.
When I finished, I toweled off and came out. Anna was already changed into the cardigan-and-pajama set she wore at home, propped up on the bed.
She’d probably been waiting for me to finish so she could shower next.
I didn’t give her the chance.
I lunged at her and ripped open her shirt.
She froze for a moment, then went along with me.
But neither of us expected that she’d almost cry from the pain that time.
I kissed her forehead, tried to comfort her, but I didn’t stop.
Afterwards she lay flat on the bed, motionless.
My head was a mess. I lit a cigarette.
I hadn’t smoked in a long time and nearly forgot how.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” I said.
Even though I apologized, I couldn’t tell if the roughness of my movements had come from hatred toward her.
A long time passed before she slowly turned her head toward me.
“You’re keeping score, aren’t you?” she said.
With the lights off I couldn’t see her face clearly, but I heard the sarcasm and impatience in her voice.
She knew how I felt.
She knew that refusing to go home with me and meet my parents had wounded my sensitive pride.
But she wasn’t willing to over-explain.
That in itself said everything.
I sighed deeply, waited a beat, then blurted, “Anna, are you ashamed of me? Do you think I’m from the countryside, that I don’t deserve you?”
I’d bottled this up for so long I finally asked.
In the dark, she was silent.
After a while she said suddenly, “Of course I know Meadowvale is part of Springfield, and the canola fields there are more famous than Lake Pinebrook’s. I know why you insisted on taking me back to your hometown. Your mind wasn’t on the flowers.”
“I’m not that numb, and I’m not that stupid. I just won’t do things I don’t want to do. You can’t force me.”
She said it lightly, like she was talking about someone else. But to me, those offhand words felt like cuts across my chest.
She saw. She understood everything.
Her actions were her choice.
She could go with me home and soothe me some, without crushing all my hope. But she would, by her own will, refuse to step through my family’s door or meet my parents.
That was her compromise and her boundary.
This was my girlfriend — who seemed gentle but was full of her own stubborn ideas.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, I pulled out my phone and found a photo.
It was my parents sitting in our yard, a picture I took the last time I went home for the holiday.
“Look, that’s my dad.”
A fifty-something farmer’s face, weathered and dark, every groove pronounced. He squinted while sitting on a small stool in our dilapidated yard, sunlight on him.
I pointed to the photo of my mother. “That’s my mom.”
I swiped to the next image. It was my mother and our yellow dog under a pomelo tree.
“See this pomelo?” I pointed to the fruit fallen on the ground. “These pomelos have thick skin, little meat, and a bitter taste. They’re not good. You can’t eat them.”
“You know, Anna, this rundown yard and these useless pomelos — they represent almost twenty years of my life, where I came from. I come from a family that can’t afford to fix a broken house. This family is like an inedible pomelo: it bears a lot of fruit, works hard, but it’s all useless. People who leave this family still only get to wear fake brand stuff like what my childhood friend wears.”
I couldn’t stop speaking.
Before I knew it, tears streamed down my face.
In the dark I felt Anna watching me quietly.
“This is my life. You can look down on me, on all this. If you despise me, I can leave you.”
I said those words as if it took everything in me.
I couldn’t stand the sight of myself in that state.
“Misfortunes never come alone.” That phrase felt painfully true.
My relationship was in trouble, and my career decided to mock me too.
After the fight with Anna, both of us tacitly went silent.
No one brought up moving out.
For couples trying to make it in Seattle, separating households was an expensive option — literally costing real money.
So despite the cold war, we still lived together, though we made another unspoken agreement: work overtime whenever possible and not come home early.
When we did come home, we slept on opposite sides of our big double bed.
It was ridiculous — I worked myself to the bone, and yet luck didn’t favor me at work.
I’d only been in Operations a month when I heard that Jason Stone had offended the CEO.
Naively I thought Jason was capable and decent; even if he’d angered the higher-ups it wouldn’t matter.
But less than a week after the rumor, Jason resigned.
When I saw him holding a paper — probably the resignation clearance — walking away from HR, a chill ran through me.
I’d only been in Operations a short time. To some coworkers, being someone Jason had transferred in with basically made me part of his “camp.”
They didn’t know Jason had only casually favored me. Apart from arranging my transfer, he hadn’t helped me with anything else. I was unfairly labeled as his loyal follower.
And in the workplace I’d heard the old warning: the worst thing is to have backed the wrong leader. A new boss often wants to bring in their own people instead of keeping the previous team intact.
Before Jason left, I asked him to grab a meal. He replied: “No thanks. Maybe we’ll meet again. Ethan, you’re solid — you’ll do well.” It was a lukewarm line that made me uneasy because it didn’t feel reassuring.
Then the worst happened.
One Monday after Jason’s resignation, HR came to my desk requesting a private talk the moment I arrived. My stomach dropped. Even I could tell that wasn’t good.
HR started pointing out my faults: I hadn’t been clocking in several times this month and it looked like absenteeism. I protested, “I just forgot to punch in. The entrance camera would show I was at work.”
HR smiled. “The entrance cameras have been broken for months.”
Cold washed over me. It was obvious they were setting me up.
HR went on: “I know you haven’t been in the role long and might not have adapted. You have two choices: go back to Customer Service, or resign voluntarily.”
I laughed bitterly after a long pause. So they wanted to fire me without paying.
I refused both paths. I chose to resign.
I knew if I went back to Customer Service I’d face not just a halved salary but a career setback. My résumé would show I started as CS, moved to Senior Operations for less than two months, and then got pushed back. Any future employer would assume I couldn’t handle ops and was demoted. And a salary cut from 7,600 to 3,800 yuan would make rent impossible — I pay 4,000 a month.
I also feared that if I got poorer, Anna might leave me.
The night I finished the resignation paperwork I got home at ten. Anna still wasn’t back. Lately she came home later than me most nights.
I remembered FreeSpirit88 — the guy who’d once chased Anna relentlessly — and every time I got home earlier than her I’d check the window to see if some stranger had brought her back. Anna always took taxis home anyway; I’d told her I preferred cabs to ride-hail services because they felt safer. It gave me some small comfort.
So I started job hunting again — but this time secretly, without telling Anna.
No one to comfort me, no one to encourage me. The only thing keeping me going was our little home.
To avoid arousing suspicion, I still left every morning like I was going to work, then sat in cheap diners having breakfast while sending resumes on my old college-era assembled laptop, its fan screaming.
I kept it up for over two weeks.
History repeated: no callbacks.
I couldn’t sit still. The next rent due date was closing in.
I checked my bank balance — even paying utilities was getting tight.
Sitting in the greasy little diner, zoning out at my WorkChat screen, my hands moved on their own and opened Anna's chat.
I stared at the few words I had typed: "Could you cover my rent next time?"
After typing it, my pride made me delete it immediately.
It took me maybe two seconds to decide.
I'm going to deliver for an app.
Maybe I'm different from most people around me.
From looking like a fresh-faced internet company employee to becoming a food courier—this drop in status didn't faze me.
I grew up a country kid; hardship's been normal my whole life.
I never thought working at an internet company made you any better than anyone else—except the pay was higher than some traditional jobs.
Whether I started in customer service or later moved to operations, my job was always "manual" in nature—not like a lofty programmer role.
Besides, lately you see headlines about unemployed people turning to delivery work all the time.
What worried me most was safety.
At first I thought maybe I should drive for a rideshare app.
Delivery riders ride motorcycles or electric bikes—essentially skin-and-bones on metal—and once you have to rush, it gets dangerous.
If I drove for a rideshare, at least it’s "metal protecting meat"; driving in a car feels safer.
But I couldn't drive for a rideshare—I don't have a license.
In Seattle, getting a driver's license costs at least four or five thousand dollars. I just couldn't scrape that together.
So I never got one.
Delivery had fewer barriers.
You still need a license for a motorcycle, but I had another option: an electric bike.
Sure, it's slower and would cut into my earnings.
But for saving money, it was my best choice.
The morning I decided to act, I purposely left a bit later than Anna.
There’s a courier hub near my place; when I passed by in the mornings I'd often see the riders lined up shouting their slogans.
At the hub I told the staff why I was there and they quickly assigned me to a mentor.
He asked first, "Do you have a health certificate?"
I nodded.
My dad had told me to get one, just in case. When he used to work away, besides construction he'd pick up shifts in restaurants.
Since I went to Seattle for college, he kept nagging me to get a health certificate.
"Business might fail, but restaurants will always be in demand. With a health certificate you can at least bus tables and feed yourself."
My dad doesn't talk much; that was a rare long lecture.
I used to sneer—I'm going to college in Seattle, not bussing tables—but looking at our sparse old house, I listened.
Keeping a valid health certificate became a habit.
I never thought it would save me, but it did.
On my first day in the courier uniform, I had a flood of emotions.
I'm not dumb. After the mentor walked me through the process a few times, I took my first order.
Three or four days in, I was getting the hang of it.
The e-bike I rode was rented; I even rented an extra battery to run longer shifts.
Anna didn't seem to notice my life changing.
We talked a little more than before, but she never asked if my work was going well.
If anything, she seemed to be doing better.
One evening she came home early from the office in a great mood and made four dishes and a soup.
I had been out running orders all day. When I pushed open the door I found Anna sitting blankly at the table, guarding the five plates.
I felt a twinge of guilt—there was something I was hiding.
But Anna didn't notice.
She told me to eat: "You've been so busy, always working late. Tonight let's not order in—try my cooking."
Hearing the words "order in" made my face feel warm. I hurried to wash up, change, and sit down with her.
We hadn't eaten and talked like this in a long time.
Anna said work had been going well. Her immediate boss—the marketing department's campaign lead—had just announced she's three months pregnant.
"When she goes on maternity leave, I might have a shot at a promotion."
Anna couldn't hide her joy.
"Who will be your boss then?" I asked between bites.
It was an ordinary question; I didn't think about it.
But Anna's face changed. I noticed.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
She smiled and shook her head. "I don't know yet."
"Then how—" I frowned.
Anna sighed. "Exactly because I don't know, I feel unsettled. If they parachute in some unreliable interim manager, my life could get messy."
I nodded. Watching her pick up her bowl and eat, a new layer of doubt settled over me.
Anna's reaction struck me as strange. It brought back the friction we'd had recently. And the one person I couldn't stop thinking about—FreeSpirit88.
The bad idea of checking Anna's phone crept into my mind again.
But that night she couldn't sleep; I was exhausted and crashed as soon as I lay down. Before I could bring myself to go through her phone, I was out.
One malicious thought, once formed, is hard to dislodge.
The next day I finished work early and waited at home for Anna.
She got home much later than the night before—close to ten.
"Hey, have you eaten?" she asked when she saw me, waving a KFC bag. "I bought two burgers. One each?"
I smiled. "No thanks, I already ate."
I watched her eat, watched her shower and come out, watched her fall asleep. When I heard her soft, steady snore I knew she was out cold.
Like last time, I unlocked her phone with her fingerprint.
This time I felt no guilt. I was almost certain she was hiding something.
And it had to be different from what I was hiding—me being unemployed and delivering food. If she were hiding that, she'd look guilty; instead she looked nervous.
Driven by a vindictive, furious curiosity, I opened her WorkChat messages.
Aside from some light flirting with male coworkers in a few group chats, there was no sign of one-on-one conversations with a man.
That seemed to clear her in a way.
I examined those work groups closely.
From the coworkers' chatter I learned something—the interim manager for Anna's marketing department was an "old-timer" from another department temporarily taking over. This senior employee wasn't just long-tenured; he was a friend of the boss for years.
In the department's group chat I saw a line of messages "welcoming" the interim manager. Scrolling to the end, I saw his avatar.
It looked vaguely familiar.
But the display name above the avatar made my skin crawl.
Two words—Old Darling.
I opened the avatar.
Old Darling was how Anna had saved him in her phone. His profile name? FreeSpirit88.
The ironclad fact slammed into me.
I shook myself and combed through Anna's chat history with FreeSpirit88 again.
Nothing. She had deleted everything clean—no half-words left.
My heart sank like a heavy stone until it hurt.
No messages—this is the worst kind of news.
"Read and delete" is the classic cover-up move after doing something wrong.
The more this cleaned-up silence stretched, the more convinced I became that something intimate had happened between Anna and this man.
I had a spare phone set aside for taking orders—an old Android I’d been cycled out of. I kept it to hide my delivery work from Anna.
That night I accepted a midnight delivery on that beat-up phone.
Riding the e-bike through empty city streets, I felt lost.
Why was I doing all this?
Because I was dumped at work and by a woman today?
Because I felt like a fool?
Because I was about to hand over the woman I loved to some old man's bed?
After I dropped off the last order I sat on the curb and pulled out a pack of cigarettes I’d bought at the corner store.
Lately I'd been smoking more—bad mood, exhaustion.
I thought about Anna telling me FreeSpirit88 wasn't even in her department; he worked in business affairs. So how could he be her new boss? How could the two of them be involved?
Anger and bafflement churned together.
I stubbed the cigarette out with my shoe and made a decision: I would crush that old man like I crushed the butt.
To avoid arousing Anna's suspicion, I sneaked back home after deciding, slipped off my jacket, and lay down beside her like nothing had happened.
I had to expose FreeSpirit88.
And not just expose him—I wanted him to suffer.
The next day it hit me: right now, being a delivery rider is perfect.
I rode to Anna's office area, found a shady spot, and sat on the curb steps. Anyone could stake out a place, but I also had the courier's trick—snatching orders.
The night before, when I’d rifled through Anna’s phone, I had scrolled through FreeSpirit88's Moments posts carefully.
He never posted his real name, but there was one photo boasting about his middle-school son's test score. A math test out of 120—scored 118—with a big parental signature.
"Pang Luyuan."
That had to be the man's name.
The surname Pang isn't super common, not rare either.
Would a man in his forties order lunch deliveries?
Suddenly the app pinged me with a new order notification.
I looked closer: the order was for "Chubby Kid Crab Pot."
Their signature dish—the shrimp and crab combo.
The order name showed as "Mr. Pang."
"Chubby Kid Crab Pot"—the shrimp-and-crab combo—was Anna's favorite.
Last year, when we were broke, we promised each other we'd go to Chubby Kid once a month.
Later I started earning a bit more, but all my time disappeared into work.
I wasn't as free as before; I didn't have those long stretches of time to be with Anna.
I never expected that what I couldn't be there for would be filled by someone else so fast.
My tears started falling without me being able to stop them.
I couldn't tell if what I felt was humiliation or heartbreak.
In that instant I was almost certain: this Mr. Pang was FreeSpirit88—the person who'd lured my girlfriend.
I didn't hesitate. I took that order.
On the way from the restaurant to the customer's address, I pictured a thousand ways the meeting between Pang Reed and Anna could go.
But before I could see them, I got a "customer call."
I pulled over, took out my busted phone.
The call came from Pang through the app.
Because of the phone-number protection, I only knew it was him after I answered.
My hands shook when I picked up.
"Hello!"
A rude, brusque middle-aged man's voice.
"Are you the delivery? Change the drop-off!"
He didn't wait for me to respond, just rattled off: "Send it to the Grand Windsor on East Market Street, leave it at the front desk."
I gave a curt, "Okay."
A woman's giggle came through the line: "Midday and you're doing this? What are you up to!"
Even though I'd braced myself, it was like a bolt from the blue.
That voice—second only to my mother's—was the voice I knew best.
I couldn't be mistaken.
It was Anna.
Pang hung up.
I wiped my tears away.
Not because I was weak—because I had to speed up and ride.
I couldn't let tears blur my vision and keep me from speeding over there to beat the two of them up.
I rode faster than I ever had in my life.
At the hotel entrance I hadn't even scanned the area when I heard a man and woman laughing not far off.
I knew that woman's voice like the back of my hand.
I tossed my bike to the curb and ran toward the sound.
To my shock I almost bumped into Anna.
She didn't recognize me.
She didn't recognize a delivery driver in a uniform and helmet—half his face hidden—as the man she'd shared a bed with for years.
It felt like an invisible fist had struck my chest.
They walked past me.
I smelled Anna's perfume; my fingertips brushed the hem of her skirt.
The fabric felt smooth in a way I couldn't name.
The scent that filled my nose was foreign.
Anna was the person I knew better than anyone.
But at that moment everything about her felt utterly unfamiliar.
I even realized I didn't know what was going on inside her head right then.
I decided in three seconds to hide.
I don't know exactly why—only that my thought was simple: I wanted to watch how she was with him.
I got what I came for: I saw Anna more relaxed than I'd seen her in years.
That content, comfortable smile—like every worry in the world was irrelevant—was the smile I'd always wanted to give her.
Like that night at Don's Signature, the wish I'd made silently.
So in a way, I got what I'd wished for.
The woman I loved most was happy. Even if it had nothing to do with me.
I watched Anna, dressed up and new, link arms with Pang Reed and walk into the hotel.
On the front desk was the shrimp-and-crab takeout I had quietly left there.
They picked up the food and got on the elevator smiling.
That day I shut off my order app and waited quietly by the hotel entrance.
A few passersby gave me odd looks.
I smoked and stared; they quickly turned away.
After about an hour—I knew Anna's lunch break was only one hour—they were late returning.
Sure enough, not long after I saw Anna rush out alone, fixing her hair as she walked.
Pang must be a manager who could take extra time, I thought, and couldn't help smiling coldly.
I waited for him.
About fifteen minutes later Pang Reed, belly out and unhurried, came out of the hotel.
It was the middle of a weekday afternoon; there weren't many people around.
I picked my moment, lunged forward, and grabbed the back of his collar.
He turned. A fat face full of panic.
"Who are you? Are you crazy—"
He hadn't finished when I punched him in the nose.
Blood immediately poured from Pang's nostrils.
"He's attacking me! Murder!" he screamed like a pig being slaughtered.
I jumped on my bike and rode off.
I figured—even if he told Anna—she wouldn't guess the delivery driver who hit him was me.
That day, I felt strangely lighter.
I walked home in my usual clothes humming a tune.
But when I opened the door, I saw Anna sitting on the bed covering her face and crying.
She stopped as soon as she saw me.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just a bad thing at work today."
She tried to cover it, thinking I knew nothing.
I couldn't be bothered.
That night she, unusually, came over and hugged me first. I was cold: "Tired. Go to sleep."
I turned over and said nothing more.
The next day I waited near her office again—this time after work.
I saw Anna get into Pang Reed’s car. It wasn't a luxury, just a Volvo SUV.
I’d heard coworkers say those were worth around thirty grand. Pang was just a local middle-class guy—not particularly rich.
And for a man like that, Anna had betrayed me.
I followed the Volvo on my e-bike.
Pang drove Anna to a neighborhood near my building.
After he waved goodbye she headed toward our complex.
They weren't going on a date. From the way they acted it was clear this had been going on for a long time—probably worn itself out.
I gripped the handlebars.
The Volvo moved again and I tailed it.
Where would a middle-aged man go after dropping off his lover? Most likely home to his nagging wife.
Pang’s Volvo eased into an older gated complex with no guard.
After he drove in I followed cautiously and parked my bike around a corner near the gate, ready to keep tracking.
A hand tapped my shoulder.
I turned and got punched in the face.
Just like the previous day, a hard blow to my nose.
I was caught off guard and got two more slaps, stumbling to the ground.
Pang was the one who hit me.
He rained punches and kicks, snarling, "Who told you to come here? Is it old Fu?"
I didn't know any "old Fu." But I couldn't tell the truth either—it wouldn't help me.
I took the beating, keeping my face guarded.
Just as I was dizzy and on the verge of blacking out, I heard a woman shout, "Are you crazy? Stop it!"
Pang stopped.
I squinted through swollen eyes toward the voice. A middle-aged woman—very likely Pang’s wife.
For some reason, I lunged and grabbed at her skirt, crying, "Sister, please help me!"
The more I cried, the sadder I felt. Six parts acted, four parts real.
I felt pathetic. Even getting revenge required this humiliating theatrics.
The woman hauled me to my feet and turned on Pang, scolding him fiercely.
The complex was quiet; we were in a corner where few noticed.
Pang still wouldn't back down, yelling that I was the one who hit him yesterday.
I decided then to lie through my teeth: I'd never seen him before and I'd only come to deliver food to the complex.
Maybe when I hit him the day before he hadn't seen my face clearly.
I denied it flatly and his swagger faded.
Pang’s wife, Yvonne, wanted to take me to the hospital.
I refused—afraid of giving my real info at registration and having Pang recognize me later.
"Thanks, sister, but I have more orders. I can't go."
Yvonne sighed, then ran to the complex drugstore to buy me some antiseptic and bandages, insisting I take them.
"Don't take this to heart," she said.
I decided to push her further. "I'm from the country—skin like leather. This is nothing. Tell your man not to be so impulsive. Please put a word in for me."
That did it. Yvonne burst into tears.
She grabbed my hand, entered her number into my phone and said, "Brother, if you need anything, come to me. My husband is a mess—always causing trouble. I apologize sincerely."
Then she actually bowed. I hurried to lift her up.
I thought that sealed it.
Pang stood to the side, annoyed: "Alright—stop making a scene. It's not that big a deal."
Yvonne glared at him until he shut up.
I watched with cold eyes.
Clearly, this couple was one of those relationships where the woman was in charge and the man was weak.
If Yvonne ever found out what else Pang had done, she wouldn't let him off the hook.
I didn't need to know more. I only needed to hold onto one thing—Ethan Brooks was the most useful "weapon" I had to take my revenge on Don Keller.
After that, I said goodbye to Ethan and hurried back to the delivery hub to change out of the uniform.
I knew Anna had been at home a long time.
Imagining her pacing the apartment made me feel good. Really good.
That night when I got back, Anna even asked me why I’d only just returned.
I knew it was insecurity talking.
Even keeping two men at the same time couldn’t give her security?
Looking at her haggard face, I wanted to call her a cheap slut, to scream at her.
But I said nothing.
I just touched her cheek.
A few minutes later I was hovering over her.
A twisted thrill ran through me.
Then, in the next instant, a hollow sorrow hit me.
I knew perfectly well I wasn’t the same person anymore.
I had become someone swallowed by hate.
Things finally reached their end.
I cut the knots cleanly and did what needed to be done: I crouched outside Anna and Don Keller’s date, called Ethan, and watched Ethan catch them in the act.
Through it all I kept my identity hidden.
To Ethan, I was probably just some anonymous tipster doing a good deed.
For the next few days Anna didn’t go to work.
I didn’t know exactly what Ethan did, but from what I know of him, he’d most likely stormed the office Anna shared with Don.
One night I quietly rifled through Anna’s bag and found a termination notice.
It said the reason for dismissal was: employee committed major misconduct, severe negative impact, hereby dismissed.
Anna had always been a decent worker.
That "major misconduct" could only be the affair with Don Keller.
My once-beautiful girlfriend now lay in bed every day, crying her eyes out.
When I asked what was wrong, she wouldn’t answer—just shook her head.
Three days later I said to her coldly, "You’re not in a good place right now. Maybe we should take some time apart, cool off."
Anna sat up as if shocked by an electric shock.
"Ethan, even you don’t want me?"
"‘Even’?" I asked, dripping with sarcasm. "Who else would reject you?"
Anna deflated and fell back onto the bed.
"Anna Parker, I already know everything you did," I said.
I lit a cigarette and smoked in the bedroom. I’d never smoked inside my sleeping room before. But today felt like the last time I would be in this room.
I had told the landlord I wouldn’t renew the lease when it ended at month’s end.
Anna didn’t know any of that.
She stared blankly and asked, "What do you mean?"
"You don’t need me to explain that," I exhaled. "Let’s break up. It’s over."
Anna cried.
At first it was quiet tears, then she sobbed harder and buried her face in the pillow, refusing to get up.
I didn’t know what she was crying for—our relationship ending? The exposure of her affair?
And yet, in that moment, I wanted to rush over and hold her.
It was the habit my body and soul had built over the years.
I’d grown used to protecting Anna when she was hurt, comforting her when she was sad, cheering her up when she was bored.
I had been her anchor and shelter—even though I myself was fragile.
I took a deep breath and told her everything, every detail, start to finish.
Her face grew more shocked by the second.
"I’m done," I said at last.
She stayed silent a long time.
"Anna, you know," I said, "the minute you refused to move back to my hometown with me, I knew we’d break up. That day probably wouldn’t be far off."
"If you can’t accept where I come from, then you can’t accept me."
Anna gave a dry laugh.
I hesitated a long time before asking the one question burning inside me. If I didn’t ask, I felt I might suffocate; she would remain the knot in my chest for life.
"What exactly do you see in that man?" I asked slowly, word by word.
Anna paused for a second. "He’s local, has a car and a house, doesn’t ask much—just wants companionship. He takes me out and buys things. You know, Ethan, when I’m with him I often think of you…"
She looked at me deeply. "If I say that, it probably makes you sick."
I nodded.
Looking at her face—still soft and lovely—and those warm, watery eyes, my hatred felt like a weak fist that couldn’t muster the strength to hit.
So many memories came rushing back.
Back when we were students, getting lost in alleys and finally finding a little braised food stall, sweating as we ate.
The night I landed my job and we made love with abandon, and afterwards she whispered in my ear, "I love you."
Countless days and nights: busy, laughing over joyful things, collapsing into each other’s arms and crying after hardships.
Anna and I had been "us."
Now that "us" was going to revert into two separate people—two lonely, helpless souls drifting in a vast, indifferent world.
My tears fell uncontrollably onto the pale sheets.
In the moonlight the wet marks looked like stains you couldn’t wipe away—like the scars we’d left on each other’s hearts.
It was only much later, when I thought back to that final conversation, that I realized my decisive break wasn’t just born of despair in her or disappointment in our love. It was because I remembered the good between us.
I also knew that as we grew older, as the world showed us more of itself, those once-bright memories would gradually fade until they meant nothing.
Holding on and repairing would be pointless.
Like a thick-skinned, sour pomelo—our love seemed fruitful, but produced nothing redeeming. It was empty.
Perhaps we weren’t meant for a "result." Maybe we didn’t deserve one.
After the breakup I moved out as I’d promised the landlord.
I didn’t want anything left from that little apartment—no traces of the love that had been.
I severed ties with Anna and didn’t rent another place in the city. Frankly, I had no reason to stay.
In the last months before I left Seattle, I lived and ate at the delivery hub.
Besides sleeping and eating—and stealing showers at the official staff dorms sometimes—I just took orders non-stop.
I needed to save money. I’d earned a decent amount while with Anna, but had spent even more. I couldn’t come home empty-handed.
When I had enough, I packed and headed back home.
The train rolled past the countryside, into hills and plains…gradually closing the distance to my hometown.
I would first stop in Springfield, take a bus to Pinebrook County, then finally home to the small town.
Before leaving I called my parents.
From a distance I saw them waiting for me at the road’s corner. In that instant I understood what it meant to wait with bated breath.
Only people who truly love you wait like that.
Sitting in the worn courtyard of my parents’ house, basking in the sun and watching my father and mother—hair turning gray, eyes full of loving concern—my return felt absolutely right.
I even regretted not coming back sooner.
"With parents here, you shouldn’t travel far," I thought. I had been gone too long.
City life had left me little time to think about them. I felt ashamed and vowed to make it up—give them peace of mind so they wouldn’t worry about their son far away.
I told them I’d saved some money before leaving Seattle.
My mom looked like she wanted to say something but held it in, then finally asked, "The other day Aunt Liu wanted to set you up with someone—Wang Caihua from the town shop, do you remember her?"
She said she guessed I wouldn’t want to meet, so she politely turned it down. Neither of my parents asked about Anna. I think they understood when I came home why.
My parents are like earthworms in the soil: humble and small, but finely attuned to everything around them. That’s what survival taught them. They notice everything about me—my actions and the hidden meanings behind them.
Their care made me want to cry.
"No, Mom, I want to meet her," I said after a pause, looking up and smiling. "Wang Caihua—I remember her. Long hair, always in red dresses, loves to chat, right?"
"Yes, yes, that’s her," my mom said. Her eyes held puzzlement, but more than that, relief.
We were silent for a beat. Then my mom’s face broke into a bright smile. I could see a glimmer of tears in both of my parents’ eyes.
I patted my mom’s shoulder and smiled at my dad.
It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.
