Today, pushed by his family, he went on a blind date.
He told me the woman seemed nice—delicate features, polite, good family background and education—but he just didn’t feel a spark.
So after the date he told her bluntly they weren’t a match. That set off a huge fight at home; his father even threatened to disown him.
That afternoon, restless and in a foul mood, he came over to my place to drink with my mom. Only she had to pick up an extra night shift last minute, so it was just me home.
Ethan warned me to be careful by myself, then was about to leave. I called after him.
I bit my lip, mustered my courage, and said, “Ethan, stay—let me drink with you.”
I’ve always been rude about it and called him by his name since I was little. My mom scolded me a few times at first, but after a while they all got used to it.
Ethan stood by the window looking at me. His shirt was buttoned down to the third button, a slice of collarbone showing. The sunset draped a soft golden halo over his brow.
They say time is ruthless, but it had been oddly kind to Ethan.
He was thirty-five, but in a white shirt he looked no older than a twenty-something kid.
He smiled. “You can drink?”
I tilted my chin. “Of course! I’m the drinking god at Riverside Manufacturing!”
I’d always hated school. I dropped out after high school and went straight to the factory.
I made Ethan laugh. He waved his hand, “Come on, Uncle Carl will treat you to dinner.”
He wanted to take me to a steakhouse, but I refused.
I knew he could afford it, but I didn’t want to spend his money. I hate those places—always makes me feel trapped.
So I dragged Ethan to the Riverside Market Grill along the street. Late summer into early fall—skewers and booze felt right.
Ethan and I always had good conversation. He knew a lot. Whether I was tossing around the little bit of literary trivia I knew, or gushing over the latest heartthrob, he could jump in and argue the point with me.
Honestly, I didn’t understand why my mom never liked him.
I’d casually asked her, “Mom, Ethan’s so great—why have you refused him all these years?”
She just smiled softly, and gave me six words: “Not right for me. I don’t like him.”
That was so her—my mom is the most free-spirited woman I know.
In her twenties she fell wildly in love, but she chose wrong—he turned out to be a jerk. When she became pregnant, the man ran away and never came back. She decided to raise me alone, and never chased another partner.
There’s a fierce kind of independence about her. If she loves, she loves; if she’s wrong, she takes responsibility. Because of that, we all knew she truly didn’t love Ethan. She would rather be single for twenty years than settle.
That night Ethan and I talked about everything—except the fact that I liked him.
Maybe because we drank, Ethan loosened up more than usual. He discarded some of his composed, polite air, tugged his collar open, and told me amusing stories from work.
When something was funny he laughed out loud. He felt more real that way.
We drank a lot and talked a lot.
By the end we were drunk. Ethan paid the bill and said he’d walk me home.
I clung to his arm. “No—if my mom finds out I drank she’ll scold me!”
With my pouting, he brought me back to his place.
I texted my mom that I’d be sleeping at the Riverside Dorms tonight.
It wasn’t my first time at Ethan’s. I slipped into his slippers like it was nothing, rummaged through his closet for something to wear, and took a shower.
Afterward I put on one of his oversized shirts. It was long—just covered my hips. When I came out and sat on the couch to sober up, Ethan froze.
He blinked, cheeks flushing, and turned his head away. “Put on your own clothes.”
I sat beside him and fluttered my lashes. “Mine are all wet from the shower.”
The living room was dim. I leaned into him and saw his Adam’s apple bob.
He pursed his lips and suddenly stood. “I’ll go buy you something.”
“No!” I protested, then reached out and grabbed his wrist, standing up too.
“Ethan.” The booze gave me courage. I tugged his arm and pressed closer. “Am I pretty?”
He hesitated, then studied my face carefully before finally admitting, “Yes. Pretty.”
I know I’m not ugly—I took after my mom. People have always said I’m good-looking.
I moved closer and, climbing his arm with my fingertips, asked quietly, “Do I look like my mom?”
Ethan stiffened.
Of course he understood what I was doing. A grown man; he knew I was trying to seduce him.
He pushed me away after a few seconds, brow furrowed. “Maya, do you know what you’re doing?”
“I do!” I was flushed and buzzing from the alcohol, heat running through me. I tilted my head up. “Ethan, I like you.”
He stared for a long time, then swept his sleeve and left. “This is nonsense.”
He went into his room. My courage, so hard-won, evaporated in an instant.
Nonsense? How is this nonsense? Two unmarried adults—if it’s mutual, what’s wrong with that?
I sulked into the spare bedroom next door.
It was quiet beside me. I waited and waited, but Ethan never came. I left the door open and fell asleep without a blanket.
When I woke, Ethan was standing at the bedside. “Get up. Take some medicine—you have a fever.”
I felt awful—dizzy, freezing. I clung to him and sat up, obediently taking fever medicine.
He tucked the blanket around me and handed me a thermometer. I took it, but on purpose tugged the collar down and shoved it into my armpit. When the collar slipped, I noticed his breathing deepen, then he suddenly turned his head away.
My temperature read 38.6°C.
After some coaxing, Ethan stayed to take care of me.
Late that night, the liquor still in me, I felt cold even under the covers. I grabbed at him, mumbling, “Cold…”
Half-asleep, my hand fumbled and caught his collar. I yanked.
Ethan, unprepared, bent forward—right into my reach.
I opened my eyes. He was a breath away. I could feel the warm rush of his breath. He was nervous; his breathing quickened. My heart skipped.
Fueled by the alcohol, I went for it. I tilted my head and kissed him.
It was late. We were alone. Alcohol and suppressed feelings finally erupted. Sparks caught.
Then…we slept together.
The next morning I woke naked in his arms; Ethan was still asleep. I froze, watching the side of his face, terrified to wake him.
More than anything, I was afraid of what would happen next.
How would he react when he woke? Shocked? Angry? Regretful?
I was thinking that when his lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes.
Panic flooded me. I tried to pretend I was still asleep, but it was too late—our eyes met.
He sat bolt upright, shocked and flustered—more than I’d expected.
He practically jumped out of bed, only to realize he wasn’t wearing any clothes. For the first time in all the years I’d known him, he looked truly panicked.
He grabbed some clothes and dressed quickly, then frowned and looked down at me. “Maya…last night…”
He started, ashamed, like someone who’d done wrong.
I cut him off. I looked up at him. “Ethan, will you take responsibility?”
His body stiffened. His lips trembled, but he didn’t say a word.
I knew he wouldn’t. I don’t doubt Ethan’s character—if it had been any other woman, he probably would have stepped up. But I’m different. I’m the daughter of the woman he’s loved for most of his life. He can’t face that.
Still, I truly liked him. Even seeing him struggle made me feel conflicted.
I forced a laugh and shrugged, pretending to be casual. “Forget it. I was just teasing. You don’t have to take responsibility.”
Ethan still looked torn—pained and guilty.
I told him I’d rest and gently pushed him out of the room.
Once the door closed, the tears came. I thought being physically close meant being together. Guess I was naive.
But I don’t regret last night—not for now. I know the cost of impulsive love—my mom raised me through hardship—but maybe I inherited a bit of her temperament. If I love, I’ll dive in headfirst.
My mom is even more stubborn than I am though. For someone she doesn’t love, no matter how much you pour your heart out she’ll just frown and say thanks.
That’s Ethan. He’ll never stand beside my mom. If that’s the truth, then why not try? They’re both unmarried—I don’t believe I can’t win him.
Once I thought that through, I felt lighter.
I checked the time, got up, took a shower, changed, and went downstairs to buy breakfast.
Ethan never left his bedroom the whole time.
I peered at the door—no light on inside, everything silent.
I set the breakfast on the table, left a sticky note, and left.
Work waits. No matter what happens, you go in first thing.
All day I was distracted. Bits and pieces of last night kept flashing through my mind.
Because I was drunk, a lot of details were fuzzy, but there were still moments that made my face burn and my heart race.
I had this feeling we weren’t completely done—Ethan and I.
Sure enough.
A few days later my mom announced something out of the blue—she was seeing someone.
She said this “uncle” wanted to take Ethan and me to dinner. I agreed right away.
My mom had been single for so many years; if she finally found someone, of course I should be supportive.
Still, I worried about Ethan.
That night.
A relatively well-known private bistro, in a private room.
After work I changed and happily went to the dinner. When I pushed open the door I froze.
My mom’s new boyfriend was warm and came to shake my hand—friendly but careful. But he looked nothing like what I’d imagined. I’d thought she’d find a polished, successful, refined man.
Instead, standing there was a big, burly guy with tattoos all up his arms—a kind of local tough.
But he smiled at me in such a pleased, slightly embarrassed way that the contrast made him oddly endearing.
Sensing my hesitation, my mom linked her arm through his and introduced him with a smile. “This is your Uncle Carl. He’s a good man, and he’s very sweet.”
I nodded and obediently called him Uncle Carl.
When my mom complimented him, the tough-looking guy flushed and scratched his head in embarrassment.
Then the private room door opened—Ethan walked in.
The mood shifted.
Ethan froze for a moment when he saw the man my mom was linked with.
But he quickly composed himself, walked over, and shook Uncle Carl’s hand without making a scene.
“Hello, Ethan,” Uncle Carl said, still warm and friendly. He chatted a bit. “Lena mentioned you—said you take good care of her and Maya. Thank you.”
Ethan’s face was unreadable. “We’ve been friends a long time. It’s what friends do.”
They sat down.
My mom naturally sat next to Uncle Carl; I deliberately took the seat beside Ethan.
He blinked but didn’t protest.
My mom was used to it—ever since I was little I liked to stick close to Ethan and slide in beside him at meals.
As the dinner went on, my mom had been right.
Uncle Carl might look rough, but he was a really good man—thoughtful, attentive to my mom, jovial, quick with a comeback, polite to the waitstaff. You could tell he respected people and that he loved my mom.
By the end of the meal I liked him a lot more than I expected.
Ethan, though, stayed quiet. If you didn’t speak to him, he barely said anything.
Seeing the couple opposite us all lovey-dovey made Ethan look even lonelier. I pursed my lips and got a little mischievous.
Under the table I nudged the top of his foot with my toes.
Ethan stiffened.
I grinned and casually turned my head as if looking out the window behind him, then let my toes trace up his ankle.
His legs tensed harder, and suddenly his hand slipped under the table and tapped my thigh.
He scowled at me—warning written all over his eyes.
I smiled and grabbed his hand, squeezing until our fingers entwined.
Ethan’s composed face immediately lost its calm.
The first half of dinner was fairly calm: my mom and Uncle Carl tossed compliments back and forth, Ethan stayed silent, and I happily played the role of sugar-fan.
Later, under the table, Ethan and I held hands.
He eventually tacitly accepted it.
Why no one across the table noticed? I’m left-handed and happened to sit to Ethan’s left, so my right hand held his left. We’d occasionally pick up food with our other hands—no one saw anything odd.
More importantly, the couple opposite were wrapped up in each other—who would pay attention to us?
But as I quietly stared at our joined hands, a thought hit me.
What if he was doing this out of spite?
Finding my mom’s new boyfriend shocked and hurt him—maybe he silently agreed to hold my hand as a way to get back at me.
That stung. Still, I didn’t want to argue. I’d liked him for so long; as long as I could be with him, I didn’t care why.
Dinner continued with two couples feeling very different things.
At one point Ethan got up to go to the restroom. I stood too and called out like it was nothing, “I’m going too!”
I followed him out of the room, acting casual.
He walked fast; I kept up. We crossed the long corridor and reached the restroom door.
Ethan was about to push into the men’s room when I grabbed him.
I steeled myself and leaned close to his ear. “Ethan, can I come to your place tonight?”
Ethan was easy to tease; I knew that.
Just that question in the empty hall made his ears go pink.
He took a deep breath, turned to me, and said with heavy seriousness, “Maya, let’s end this. I was drunk that night…”
He’d barely started when I cut in. “Ethan, my mom already found a boyfriend—what are you waiting for?”
He stared at me.
I reached forward, took his hand, and put it against my cheek. “People always say my mom and I look so much alike. Look.”
I softened my voice. “Do I look like her?”
He couldn’t refuse. He glanced at me, then away. “Do you?”
He pursed his lips and finally said, “You do.”
I pushed while things were warm. “Then let me come over tonight. Okay?”
As adults, we both knew what that line meant. Ethan was quiet a long time, then finally relented. He looked me in the eyes, though his brow was tight. “Okay.”
When he said it I smiled, let go of his hand, and said, “Go to the bathroom. I’ll wait here.”
He seemed like he wanted to say more. His lips moved, but he didn’t speak and walked into the men’s room.
The instant he turned away, my smile vanished.
I knew as clearly as anything we were on different paths now. There was no turning back.
I was gambling my whole life on this.
And from the moment he agreed to let me go to his place—no matter why—my odds were sunk.
Worried and restless, I stood by the restroom corridor and lit a cigarette.
Sometimes I thought my life had no future—no degree, started at the plant at twenty, gave my youth and body to the work, and the person I loved didn’t love me back.
A third of the cigarette gone, Ethan walked out.
He blinked, then hurried over, snatched the cigarette from my hand, and scolded with a sternness that felt almost parental. “Don’t smoke!”
I tilted my chin and winked. “My mom smokes.”
He paused, looked at me, said nothing, then took the half-smoked cigarette, drew two puffs like it was nothing, and crushed it in a nearby trash can.
He dropped the butt, looked down at me, and said, “Let’s go back. They’ll worry if we’re gone too long.”
I nodded and followed him.
All the way I stared at his back.
Sometimes you just can’t figure out your mom’s taste. She passed up a guy as good as Ethan and chose a rough-looking tough. Fate between people is weird like that, I guess.
The rest of the meal was simple. My mom and Uncle Carl kept diking on each other, Ethan kept quiet, and I ate with my head down.
The air felt calm but with a thin thread of awkwardness.
Suddenly there was a peeled shrimp in my bowl.
I blinked and looked up. Ethan was peeling the second shrimp.
Almost instinctively I glanced at my mom and Uncle Carl—completely unfazed. My mom teased, “Ethan, she’s never dated anyone; you’ve spoiled her. If she starts looking for men by your standards, she’ll never find anyone.”
I looped my arm through Ethan’s and joked, “Then if I can’t find someone later, I’ll just cling to him!”
My mom glared and laughed at me for being disrespectful.
They all took it as a joke. Only I knew Ethan’s fingers had gone stiff for a second as he peeled the shrimp.
After the meal, Uncle Carl went to pay—but Ethan had already settled the bill.
Uncle Carl looked puzzled. Ethan finally smiled tonight—the first one I’d seen—and said, “It’s just a meal. Who pays doesn’t matter. From now on, please take care of Lena.”
It was an odd, almost entrusted thing to say, but Uncle Carl, bless him, didn’t read into it. He grumbled about not letting Ethan pay and promised he’d take care of my mom.
Watching their affectionate exchange, I did my best not to be an extra at this romance.
I waved my hand and told my mom, "You two go ahead. I’ll head back to the dorm tonight."
Then, trying to sound casual, I patted Ethan’s arm. "Have Ethan drive me back."
Mom nodded and didn’t press the issue.
Uncle Carl didn’t take the car—whether he even had one, I didn’t know. I know my mom: once she sets her heart on someone, she doesn’t care about practicalities. If she decides a man is the one, she’d follow him holding a bowl even if he went begging.
She and Uncle Carl looked like two kids in love, hand in hand as they walked into Maplewood Station.
Only when their figures disappeared did I turn and loop my arm through Ethan’s.
"Stop staring, Ethan. Let’s go home."
"Mm."
He answered softly, slowly looking away. He let me hook my arm through his and started toward the parking lot.
Driving home.
Riding in the passenger seat, I had this strange little illusion—like maybe I really was Ethan’s girlfriend now, sitting beside him in the fading evening light on the way home.
We didn’t speak the whole way.
Park, get out, go inside.
We shut the door behind us and neither of us went in first. We didn’t turn on the light.
The door slammed shut behind us, and Ethan stood in front of me without a word.
He seemed… hesitant.
I knew Mom’s new relationship had struck him hard. I knew he hadn’t been able to get past that night when we were together. But I didn’t want to give myself time to hesitate—I feared that if I hesitated, I’d lose my chance to be with him for good.
So in the dimness I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around his waist.
Ethan’s breathing deepened.
"Ethan."
I whispered his name in the dark. "Hold me."
All these years I’d always called him by his full name.
He was silent for a few seconds, then, obediently, he held me.
His palm settled at my lower back—hot, heavy.
I tilted my head up and rose onto my toes, pressing my lips to his.
Ethan’s lips were so soft—warm and tender.
I tentatively slipped out the tip of my tongue and traced it along his lips. He was quiet a beat, then the hand at my back tightened. He swooped me into his arms, carrying me sideways toward the bedroom.
I looped my legs around his waist and clung to his neck. I could tell he was moved.
It struck me then: in the grown-up world, the first step matters so much. Once you take it, the second and third steps often follow naturally.
Ethan set me down at the edge of the bed and loosened his collar. Moonlight slanted through the window as he looked at me, his voice low, threaded with a soft pant.
"Maya, have you thought it through?"
I didn’t answer with words. I grabbed his hand and kissed him as he leaned down—an action that was my answer.
When girls open to their feelings, they might feel for many boys. I never did.
From that first flutter to now, I’ve only ever liked one person.
He was holding me in the dark, arms tight around my waist.
I’d dropped out and been working for over two years. Plenty of guys at Riverside Manufacturing chased me, but I’d never let any of them in. I was waiting for someone—waiting for someone to accept me.
That night we let ourselves go.
Ethan held me close and I returned his passion. We spent the night wrapped up in each other.
I knew there was no turning back, yet I couldn’t be sure… would Ethan give me a future?
Late, when he was propped over me, nuzzling my ear, he murmured, "Maya, you’re beautiful."
"You’re beautiful"—not "I love you."
In that faint moonlight I stared into his eyes and held back the urge to ask if I looked like her.
I must have been crazy to compare myself to my mom in a moment like that. But the thought that he might still be thinking of someone else twisted me up inside.
At dawn my phone buzzed.
I blinked awake, slipped from Ethan’s arms, and fished my phone from under the pillow.
The screen showed a single caller: Mom.
Ethan’s sleep vanished the instant he glimpsed it; he sat up straight.
I steadied myself and answered. "Hello?"
My mom’s voice on the line was bright, full of the kind of happiness you get from new love. "Maya, I’m at the factory gate. This morning Uncle Carl made your favorite savory pork-and-preserved-egg congee and I bought some steamed soup dumplings. Come grab them, okay?"
Even though I wasn’t on speaker, her voice floated clearly in the room.
Ethan stiffened noticeably.
For some reason, seeing him like that made me want to tease him.
I gripped the phone and called out, "I’m not at the factory. I’m with Ethan."
Ethan’s reaction was dramatic—he lurched up, shock on his face.
Look at that—the usually calm Ethan had his own blush-and-panic moment. He looked like a man caught in the wrong bed.
My mom was surprised. "You’re with him?"
I shot Ethan a playful look, then, meeting his warning gaze, smiled and said smoothly, "They say the steamed dumplings downstairs are really good. I asked Ethan to buy some for me, but he refused, so I had to come get them myself."
It sounded so like me that Mom didn’t doubt it. She’d long ago gotten used to my impulsive cravings—I’d once ridden an hour across town just for a slice of thick-cut fried yogurt.
She told Uncle Carl where she’d left the breakfast at the factory and hung up.
I put the phone away and looked at Ethan.
He didn’t look pleased.
For once he wore a shadowed expression—stiff, eyes downcast. For a moment his gaze made my heart race.
"Ethan…"
I grabbed his wrist and gave it a little shake, trying to be sweet.
I wasn’t fully focused—the night had been too intense. We had only washed up quickly before sleeping. Ethan, wearing only boxer shorts, had his chest bare; his muscles were tight in the moonlight, and I couldn’t help stealing a glance.
But my fingers on his arm were jerked away.
In all these years, it was the first time I’d seen Ethan angry. He shot me a cold look, scooped up the scattered clothes from the floor, and left the room.
"Bang!"
The bedroom door slammed. I shivered and snapped back to reality.
Ethan was really angry. Over something as trivial as my teasing?
I couldn’t make sense of it. I pulled on the nearest shirt, then went to his bedroom door and knocked.
"Knock knock—"
Silence.
I tried calling, "Ethan!" but got no answer.
I felt an odd prick of stubbornness and grabbed my phone, heading out. As I left, I slammed the door shut on purpose.
The heavy sound made my stomach drop.
People are strange. Before we slept together I had told myself I would ask for nothing—just being near him would be enough. But now that we actually were together, my expectations had shifted in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
At the elevator I glanced back. The hallway was quiet; Ethan hadn’t even opened the door to watch me go.
The elevator doors opened and I sighed as I stepped in.
Halfway down the block, I paused and looked up at his apartment window. I could have sworn a shadow flitted past the curtain, then it was empty when I blinked.
I couldn’t focus the whole workday. All I could see was the expression Ethan had given me—the coldness in his final glance.
Was he really that upset? I felt guilty and petty at the same time.
And of course, misery attracts people.
Tony Shen—one of the line workers—had been pursuing me for months. He’s decent enough but mouthy. He’d been out today on leave, but as I neared the factory gate he staggered into view reeking of alcohol.
He slurred greetings at me. I gave a curt nod and tried to hurry past. I still had the urge to go back to Ethan’s place to see if he’d come out.
Tony grabbed my wrist. He was close, breath heavy with booze. "Maya, I’ve been the loyal one for ages. You owe me something today, right?"
Gooseflesh climbed my arms. I shrugged his hand away. "What do you want?"
Tony’s used his connection to the Plant Manager to act like a bully. At the gate, people pretended not to notice him clinging to me.
He was wasted and careless. He flashed a lecherous grin, stepped closer, and reached for my waist. I dodged instinctively—and without thinking, slapped him.
The smack rang out.
Tony froze, stunned. I was stunned too. I hadn’t meant to act, but the slap flew.
"Shit!"
Surprised and furious, Tony’s face turned beet red. He grabbed my wrist and swung at me.
Then the romantic drama cliché happened for real.
Someone grabbed Tony’s hand and yanked. He was thrown hard backward.
I turned, bewildered, and my eyes met Ethan’s.
His eyes, narrow and quiet, had a chill in them that didn’t belong to the Ethan who usually protected and comforted me. He stared Tony up and down, then let out a low chuckle. "A drunk trying to hit a woman?"
After taking hit after hit, Tony felt humiliated. He tried to scramble up to fight back, but Ethan held him down with iron force.
Ethan had been working out for years. I’d traced each of those eight-pack abs so many times during our nights together—every ridge was real.
Outside the plant.
Under the crowd’s watchful eyes, Ethan had taken that slap meant for me and given Tony a piece of his mind.
For a moment, I soaked up every bit of attention.
I’ve never liked being the center of attention, but when Ethan showed up, I felt an odd little flutter of girlish glee: I wanted to loop my arm through his, parade around the plant with him, and let everyone see—this is my man, this is how amazing he is.
Childish, but sweet.
The little drama ended with Tony slinking away.
Ethan looked back at me, then turned to face me.
He frowned slightly and murmured, “I just happened to be passing by.”
I hooked my arm through his, sweeping the morning’s sourness away in a bright voice. “Mm, just happened to be passing by our plant when I got off work.”
Ethan rubbed the bridge of his nose and said nothing more.
With everyone staring, I climbed into his car. The black Land Rover was impossible to miss parked at the gate.
I could already imagine the gossip tomorrow—people at Riverside Manufacturing would definitely whisper that I was being kept by him.
But who cared.
What happens today, happens today. Tomorrow can sort itself out.
We rode in silence, the kind of effortless quiet that doesn’t need filling.
We came back to his house in that quiet.
Door closed.
Ethan led me to the sofa and sat down. He tilted his head down, hands folded on the coffee table, fingertips rubbing together.
With what I knew of him, I could tell he was weighing something.
That realization made my chest flutter in a new, anxious way.
Sure enough—after a long silence, Ethan looked up, thin-lipped and solemn. He spoke the words I’d been dreading: “Maya…we should stop this. Let’s end it here.”
For a heartbeat, my heart seemed to freeze.
I took a slow breath, looked up and smiled at him. “Why?”
Before he could answer, I gripped his hand, palm against the back of his. His skin was cold.
“Ethan, I don’t think you’re the kind of jerk who takes what he wants and walks away.”
Ethan’s face hardened, as if he’d already decided. He lifted his head slowly. Under the lamp’s light I could see the red ring in his eyes—he looked worn out.
I felt a sudden pang of pity.
I leaned closer, against his shoulder, afraid to meet his gaze.
“Ethan.”
“Don’t end it.” I pressed. “I’ve liked you for years. Can feelings really just stop because you say so?”
He didn’t answer. The room felt very still.
I drew in a breath and tightened my fingers around his arm, softening my voice. “If you’re single, I’ll stay as your lover, okay? I can keep us secret. I can hide it from my mom. I can—”
“Maya.”
He cut me off suddenly. He pulled his arm away and straightened me gently, then looked down. “We already made a mistake. We can’t keep making the same mistake. I’m fifteen years older than you. Besides feelings, I’m a friend of your mother—how could we—”
“How could we not?” I wouldn’t relent. I grabbed his hand again, my voice thickening. “You’re just a friend of my mom. We’re not married. Why not?”
He sighed, reached up and smoothed my hair.
“Maya, you’re young—you can be naive. I can’t.”
“But we already slept together!”
My eyes widened. I didn’t want to force him with tears, but my nose burned and the tears slipped anyway.
Ethan always hated to see me cry.
Over the years, whatever the issue, the moment I cried he almost always gave in.
My mother used to tease him about being a future doting dad.
He bent to wipe my tears, brow knit tight, eyes full of regret and heartache—those reddened eyes looked exhausted.
I knew then that he truly regretted it.
After wiping my face, Ethan sighed and said, “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “I volunteered for it.”
Then he suddenly crouched and cupped my face, voice husky. “I took your first time and then cowered at taking responsibility. Maya, why was I such a coward?”
I fell silent. I didn’t know how to answer. But I also knew Ethan wasn’t a coward—he was the bravest man I’d ever seen.
He sighed again.
Then he pressed his hand against the back of my head and gave a gentle pull—I found myself drawn into his arms.
Warm lips landed on mine.
After a featherlight kiss, Ethan cupped my face and said, “I’ll take responsibility.”
I froze, then looked up at him, surprised and thrilled. “You mean—?”
He pulled me to his chest. I leaned into him, not seeing his expression.
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to meet your mother.”
That night I stayed at Ethan’s again.
I wore his shirt in bed and shared the mattress with him. But this time, nothing happened.
We slept in our clothes, curled up together.
With the lights out, I turned on my side and held him tight.
Everything had moved so fast that I needed reassurance that he really was mine.
But…I’d become clingy and anxious. Even with him beside me, my heart felt oddly empty and untethered.
I worried he’d say he wanted to be together in a rush and then back out. I worried he’d chicken out when faced with my mother’s anger. I worried—too many worries. When I added them up, they all came down to one fear: that he wouldn’t want me.
Late at night, half asleep, I reached out by reflex and found his side empty.
I jolted awake.
I sat up and scanned the room; only when I saw his silhouette by the window did my heart slow.
He heard the noise and turned. “You awake?”
His voice was calm, but I noticed the cigarette pinched between his fingers—half-smoked.
He rarely smoked in my memory. Except for that time he snagged a cigarette in the hallway, I hadn’t seen him smoke for a year or two.
Ethan stubbed it out and came over to the bed. He picked up the coat draped over a chair and placed it across my shoulders like it was the most natural thing.
I suddenly grabbed his hand. “Ethan, I had a nightmare.”
He gave a small smile and patted my shoulder. “Dreams are opposite things.”
I looked up. He was backlit, his face in shadow.
“I dreamed you didn’t want me.”
Ethan paused, then patted me again. His voice was soft. “Then that dream’s opposite—you probably were the one who left me.”
Listening to the exchange, for a moment I felt like we were a real couple.
An ordinary couple in love.
But smelling the tobacco on his shirt, I couldn’t help blurting: “Ethan, if I weren’t my mom’s daughter, would you fall in love with me?”
His fingertips stiffened for a moment.
In the dimness he seemed to purse his lips.
After a long beat, he rubbed my hair and answered quietly, “Maybe.”
That little maybe felt shaky. I once read a psychology book that said when someone adds a hesitant word like “maybe” after a statement, it’s often insincere.
“Let’s eat lunch before you go,” can mean “I don’t want you to stay.”
“I’ll pay,” can mean “I don’t want to pay.”
“Maybe,” can mean no—or that even he doesn’t know.
“Ethan…”
I called softly, hooked my fingers into his pajama collar.
As a grown man—and an older man—Ethan understood immediately what I was asking.
Under the moonlight he tensed his jaw, reached up to ruffle my hair again, but I ducked away.
I frowned—something I rarely did in front of him. “Ethan, that gesture is more like an elder coddling a younger person.”
He blinked, ready to respond, but I moved faster. I grabbed his hand and pulled it to my waist.
His hand, cool a moment ago, reacted with sudden heat when it landed at my side.
I leaned forward and breathed warm air in his ear. “This is the way a man treats a woman.”
His breathing deepened. After a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped me in his arms.
A soft sigh came from above. “Maya Lin, what am I to do with you?”
He sounded helpless and affectionate at once.
I threw my arms around his neck and collapsed back onto the bed. When he moved to cover me, I knew we were both trapped.
I was wrong—I’d fallen hopelessly for my mother’s friend, for a man fifteen years older. I let myself be spoiled and kept by him.
But Ethan wasn’t innocent either. Knowing it was wrong, he still kept breaking down each time.
I knew Ethan was attracted to me physically, but I didn’t think he loved me.
That was okay. I’d wait until the day he did. Life is long—I didn’t believe his heart would stay unmoved forever.
Ethan—time is on our side. We’ll take it slow.
The next morning he was gone when I woke.
I rose quietly, washed up, dressed.
I trusted Ethan to keep his word. If he’d promised to take responsibility, I was sure he wouldn’t abandon me—at least not before meeting my mother.
And sure enough, when I stepped out of the bedroom, he was at the table.
Today he wore a simple white T-shirt. He stood in the light with a spatula in hand. When he heard me, he turned. “You up? Come eat.”
He spoke gently and poured me a cup of hot milk.
I didn’t answer. Instead I slid my arms around his waist and rested my head against his back, feeling unexpectedly comforted.
“Ethan, have you thought it through?” I asked.
By morning he seemed to be in much better spirits. He made me a sandwich and asked softly, "Decided what you want?"
I tightened the hand around his waist without meaning to. "Come with me… to see my mom."
He paused for two seconds, then continued as if nothing had happened.
"Okay," he said, handing me the sandwich he’d made. "Don’t worry. I promised I’d take responsibility."
He reflexively lifted his hand to smooth my hair, but froze halfway up as if remembering something.
He chuckled lightly. "Eat."
I took a bite and then kept replaying the scene in my head.
Luckily, Mom had Uncle Carl around now. If she hadn’t, I might’ve been worried about how she’d take it.
After breakfast Ethan wiped his mouth with a napkin, hesitated for a few seconds, then picked up the phone on the table.
My heart tripped. Under my gaze, he dialed my mom—"Hello?"
He took a deep breath when she picked up and spoke calmly. "Can we meet for a bit? Me, you, and Maya."
My mom agreed quickly on the other end. She said little—just two sentences—and he hung up.
"Let’s go."
He stared off for a moment, then looked down at me.
For some reason, at that moment it was me who felt shaky. I wasn’t afraid of my mom scolding me—I was terrified that if Ethan was only with me out of a sense of duty, he’d regret it later.
Would he look back and blame me?
As I hesitated, his hand warmed mine.
Ethan’s palm was big, covering my hand completely. "Let’s go. To your place."
I blinked and nodded, getting up to follow him.
We were silent the whole way, neither of us speaking.
At the front door, seeing that familiar threshold, my grip on his hand loosened a little.
I could tell Ethan, who’d seemed so determined, was feeling it too. His palm was slick with sweat and his fingers stiffer than usual.
We stood at the door for a long time without knocking.
I almost chickened out. I tugged his hand, lifted my head to say, "Never mind—"
Then the door opened—my mom was there. We stood in front of her hand in hand, totally unprepared. The three of us stared at each other.
My mom glanced at us, then down at our interlaced fingers.
Silence.
A silence like a grave.
Oddly, the nervousness I felt before knocking gave way to a kind of reckless surrender. I tightened my hold on Ethan, drawing warmth from his palm.
His fingers were stiff, but he did not let go.
Minutes passed. I braced for an explosion—my mom throwing a fit, sobbing hysterically—but instead she released the doorknob and stepped aside.
"Come in," she said.
She had taken a few minutes to process it, and now her face was calm—so calm I couldn’t read any emotion.
I bit my lip and let Ethan lead me inside.
He just closed the door behind us when a voice came from the kitchen. "The fish is almost done. When will Maya and the girls be back?"
I Loved Him First, Then Left
Uncle Carl poked his head out of the kitchen, stopped when he saw us, then smiled—only his gaze froze on our joined hands.
His smile stiffened.
Compared to my mom's composed reaction, Uncle Carl's was more visibly shaken. His tattooed arm trembled as he pointed at our hands. "You two—"
Before he finished, my mom patted his shoulder. "Carl, go finish the food. I'm hungry."
He swallowed his surprise, nodded, tied on his apron, and went back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
The three of us sat on the couch in an awkward hush. My mom was the first to speak.
She's always been a cool, composed woman. Even when she smiles most of the time, there’s a streak of iron in her—she handles everything with unapologetic strength.
She came over, sat beside me, and gripped my hand tight.
For the first time, holding her hand, I noticed how she had aged. The woman who had sheltered me my whole life was not as young as I always imagined.
She looked at me gently, still steady. "Maya, you're an adult now. I just want to ask one thing—"
"Do you truly love him? No matter what happens later, will you stand by him through storms and sunshine for the rest of your life?"
It sounded like wedding vows. I was stunned for two seconds, then nodded without hesitation.
I couldn't know what Ethan was thinking, but I knew who I was—I was certain.
Mom said nothing more, only patted the back of my hand and stood up.
"Ethan, come with me."
She lowered her eyes and looked at him; her tone was even, unreadable.
He rose and walked with her into a side room. The door closed.
My heart danced and hurt at once. I was thrilled she had calmed so quickly, but terrified that whatever she said might make Ethan change his mind.
I wanted to press my ear to the door, but the kitchen door opened and Uncle Carl set a plate of sliced fruit in front of me, smiling kindly. "Have some fruit."
I had to sit back down, helpless. He handed me an apple slice and leaned in. "Actually… your mom figured it out long ago."
I blinked in surprise.
"She always said you were into Ethan. I didn't believe it at first—I thought the age difference was too big. He's fifteen years older—how could it work? But your mom knew you. She said she could tell by the look in your eyes."
I was speechless.
If she knew, why hadn't she ever said anything? Why hadn't she tried to keep us apart?
As if reading my thoughts, Uncle Carl said softly, "She said you are just like she was at your age. Most people won't learn until they hit the wall and come back. You two are the sort who, once you decide on something, you'll keep going until you break through. She thought if she tried to stop you, you'd only be more determined."
He put the fork with the apple slice into my hand.
His words sent me reeling through memories I’d brushed off before—little warnings from Mom about keeping my distance from Ethan, her telling me she had been too young once and paid for it, that she'd sacrificed half her life.
She'd advised me to date someone my own age: not necessarily rich or wildly successful, but someone I loved—and who loved me. She'd said at her age she no longer believed love could pay the bills, but she still wanted me to find someone to share my life with. Not just him loving me, or me loving him—balance.
Those lines I hadn't listened to before were suddenly loud in my head. I finally understood what she had meant.
While I was lost in thought, the bedroom door opened. My mom and Ethan came out together.
Ethan followed behind, his expression quiet. There was a faint red mark on his left cheek—like he'd been slapped.
I sat up and moved toward him, reaching to touch his face. He turned his head away ever so slightly.
He took my hand. "It's alright."
My mom still wore that calm look. She glanced at Uncle Carl and asked plainly, "Is dinner ready?"
He nodded quickly. "Yes! I'll go serve it."
"No need."
Ethan interrupted softly. "I'll take Maya home first."
He looked at my mom, then turned and led me out. I stumbled behind him.
"Ethan—"
My mom's voice stopped him. He paused but didn't turn around. When I glanced back, I saw she had tears in her eyes.
Her eyes were reddened. Her hand at her side was balled into a fist.
"If you dare betray my daughter, I'll haunt you for it. You know I mean it."
It was the first time I'd ever seen my mom cry. Maybe it's dramatic, but as a woman who'd done the hard thing for twenty years and never shed a tear, she had always seemed invulnerable. Yet those red rims told another story—her worry and love.
Ethan gave no reply. He nodded once, then held my hand and left.
On the drive home he was utterly silent, rigid at the wheel. I sat in the passenger seat and watched him.
I got what I wanted—being with Ethan—but it wasn't as blissful as I imagined.
At least for now, he seemed withdrawn. He wasn't like this before. He'd been boyish in a way, even at thirty-five—white shirts, hair just at the brow, always smiling with that gentle charm.
These last few days he'd been quieter, lost in thought. What he was thinking, I didn't know.
That night we slept curled together. Funny how once we were officially together, we didn't rush into anything; we fell asleep in our pajamas, me wrapping my arms around his waist.
Maybe it was the lack of security in this relationship, but I suddenly developed a habit: when I slept I had to wrap my arms around his waist, my fingertips clutching the hem of his shirt.
Maybe it was a subconscious fear that he would leave.
That night I couldn't sleep. When I looked up, I happened to see Ethan Grant also awake.
"Ethan…"
I reached out and poked his chest. "Do you love me?"
He was silent for a moment, then turned slightly to pull the blanket over me. He leaned down and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Go to sleep. Don't overthink it. I'll stay with you."
His tone was gentle, but the words hit me where it hurt most: he'll stay with me, but he doesn't love me.
Still, I knew it was my own fault for asking such a needy question at a time when feelings overruled reason—an answer I already knew.
I didn't press it. Instead I tightened my arms around him. "Okay. Good night."
"Good night."
The next morning when I woke up, Ethan had already made breakfast.
It was exactly how I liked it.
After all these years he knew my preferences better than anyone—soy milk with no sugar, soup dumplings without ginger in the filling, even the steamed sweet potato had to be the yellow-fleshed ones I preferred.
Everything seemed flawless; he cared for my tastes with such quiet tenderness.
After breakfast he drove me to work.
When the car stopped at the factory gate, Ethan leaned over to unbuckle my seatbelt. I leaned up a little and mouthed, "goodbye kiss."
He hesitated for two seconds, then bent and pecked my cheek.
I felt a little disappointed but said nothing. I reached up and stole a quick kiss on his lips, then opened the door and got out.
As I expected from last night, the moment I stepped out I drew a lot of attention. Whispering started up around me.
I had steeled myself for this long ago and walked in with my head held high.
But I underestimated how vicious people's tongues could be.
Even though I was prepared, by the end of the day I couldn't hold back—I'd gotten into three arguments, one of which nearly turned physical.
The worst was Tony Shen.
I had thought he'd learn his lesson after getting slapped yesterday, but he only got bolder. All day long he kept coming over to hassle me.
It was maddening.
Finally—at lunch when he started groping me in the cafeteria, his dirty hand trying to take advantage, I slapped him twice and walked away before he could fully react.
I handed in my resignation, packed my things, and left Riverside Manufacturing.
Job hunting would take time, so I carried my boxes back to Ethan's place.
He was still at the office at that hour.
Seeing Ethan's empty apartment, I suddenly got the urge to start arranging our future home, bit by bit.
Ethan liked a minimalist style; besides the essentials, there was almost nothing extra—so the place felt bare, lacking the warmth of real life.
I stopped by the nearby market, bought vegetables and meat, intending to cook.
When I came back carrying bags, someone was standing at Ethan's door—long dress, high heels, scarlet lips, an enviable figure though her face wasn't spectacular.
I knew her. Laura Pierce—Ethan's rumored girlfriend.
She was called a "rumored" girlfriend because she'd been seen trailing Ethan in public many times, but he never acknowledged her.
I had run into her before—at Ethan's office, at my mother's school reunion. When she saw me she paused, a flash of displeasure crossing her eyes before she quickly hid it.
Of course I knew why she was displeased—her would-be lover had been devoted to my mother for years; who would be happy to see me?
She masked it well. With a smile she waved at me in a condescending, coaxing tone. "Maya, what are you doing here?"
I gave her a look, fished my keys out of a bag and knocked. "I live here now."
Laura blinked, then laughed. "Your mom's not home? Since when have you been staying here…?"
"Not staying," I cut her off and opened the door. "From now on I'll live here—with Ethan."
Laura froze. "You and…"
I finished for her, declaring my claim. "We're boyfriend and girlfriend now."
She stood stunned for a moment.
I expected shock, maybe hurt. What I didn't expect was how vicious she could be behind that cool façade.
Only a few seconds later her face shifted into disdain. She sized me up and sneered. "Boyfriend? Your mother is such a slut—didn't think you'd be any different. Trying to hook guys twice your age at twenty-something, Maya Lin—your mother raised you well, taught you to be even worse!"
I laughed coldly and clenched my phone. "Whether Ethan and I are dating is none of your business. But you—"
I looked her up and down. "Ma'am, you're old enough to know better. Don't try to steal men my age. Besides, Ethan likes younger women; you're not his type."
I flashed my phone screen—our WeChat conversation. I had recorded everything she had just said and sent it to Ethan.
When she saw the screen, I shrugged. "Feel better now?"
Her face went white.
Everyone knew my mom was Ethan's line in the sand. No one wanted to piss him off on that count. Her expression hardened. "You bitch!"
She spat the insult and—heels clacking—rushed at me, trying to grab my hair.
Sorry, I'm not some pushover. I grew up rough; I hadn't been the top student, but I knew how to fight, and my mom had been called into school plenty of times because of it.
When someone attacks first, I don't hold back. Just as she lunged, my phone lit up; I glanced down and saw Ethan's message: Don't hold back. I'm coming home right now.
I smiled. Of course he knew me.
Ethan hurried back.
By the time he arrived, Laura and I had dragged our fight from the apartment into the hallway.
We were both a mess—her with mascara running and one heel missing; me with my hair tousled. It looked like a proper catfight.
Ethan stepped between us and pulled us apart.
The moment he appeared, Laura instantly changed her face. The ferocity disappeared and she slipped into a wounded act, hooking her arm through Ethan's. Pointing a manicured finger at me, she whined, "Ethan… she—she hit me!"
Hearing her say his name made my stomach turn.
I leaned into the game and grabbed Ethan's other arm, softening my voice on purpose. "Ethan, your so-called girlfriend insulted my mom, hit me, and tried to slap me!"
I batted my eyes at him. Played weak and helpless.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He wrapped an arm around me and smoothed the stray hair from my temple, then said evenly, "Then hit her back."
Laura froze, utterly incredulous. "Ethan…"
She didn't even call him by that pet name anymore.
I settled into his embrace and said, smiling, "She's older—how could I hit someone of her generation?"
I exaggerated the word "older" on purpose.
Laura scowled but dared not speak up with Ethan there.
Ethan wasn't about to give her the last word either. His hand slid to my waist as he led me inside.
The door slammed shut behind us with a solid thud, cutting Laura off.
Once inside he loosened his hold and looked me over carefully until he confirmed I wasn't hurt. He exhaled.
He ruffled my hair and, with a hint of annoyance in his tone, said, "How old are you? Don't fight anymore. Wait for me to handle things, understood?"
I nodded, pursed my lips and said nothing.
Then his voice came softer at my ear, "Maya, I'll protect you."
The declaration hit me out of nowhere. I glanced up at him.
Ethan stood framed in the doorway, sunlight spilling in. Something in that image stirred me—my heart, already full of Ethan, relaxed a little more.
I nodded and tapped his chest. My eyes pricked oddly. "Okay, I'll remember. Ethan, if you ever hurt me, I'll kill you. I'll rip your heart out and feed it to the dog!"
Ethan chuckled at me, his hand on my head tightening a little. "Okay."
I gripped his hand and stopped his usual parental gesture of smoothing my hair.
I believed him when he said he'd protect me. Whether that protection came from love or loyalty to my mom didn't matter right then.
There's a saying: being by someone's side is a kind of possession. At least for now, I had Ethan.
That evening I still didn't get into the kitchen—Ethan tied on an apron and cooked. I leaned in the doorway with an ice pop from the freezer, watching his back as he moved.
Even after knowing Ethan for years, I couldn't help thinking: how could anyone be so perfect? Handsome, rich, educated, cultured, meticulous and gentle—he even cooked well. Aside from not loving me, I truly couldn't find a single flaw in Ethan Grant.
I took a bite of the ice cream, tilted my head, and looked at him, thinking with a wicked little thrill: Ethan loves my mom. My blood runs her blood—round it up, and the person Ethan loves is basically me.
The thought made me laugh out loud.
Hearing me, Ethan glanced over. "What are you thinking about? Why so happy?"
He caught sight of the melting ice cream in my hand as he spoke. Suddenly his expression went stern; he snatched the cone from me and frowned, "You can't have ice when you're on your period."
Oh, right—I remembered that my period had shown up this morning on my way to work.
He gave me a reproachful look, then took a bite of the cone himself.
He acted so natural about it—no disgust at the half-eaten, melting ice cream at all.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched him quietly. "Is it sweet?"
His face froze at my question for a beat, then he nodded. I stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed the corner of his mouth lightly.
I stepped back and licked my own lips, smiling. "Mm… it is pretty sweet."
Who would've believed it—my little impulsive tease flushed that man in his thirties like a schoolboy. The skin at his ears was faintly pink.
He pressed his lips together and finished the ice cream in a few bites, then turned to finish making dinner.
Ethan was always efficient in the kitchen. Before long there were three dishes and a soup on the table.
When it came to food, he never slacked—if he ate alone he'd still make at least one dish and a soup. Even though he had money, he refused to hire a housekeeper. I asked him why once and he gave me three words: "Not used to it."
Not used to someone meddling in his life; not used to strangers popping into his minimalist routines.
I wanted to ask what it felt like for him having me suddenly in his life. But I didn't.
At the table, Ethan put on disposable gloves and began peeling shrimp for me.
Tonight he’d made all my favorites: oil-braised shrimp, garlic lettuce, sweet-and-sour ribs, and a bowl of loofah soup.
"Ethan."
I bit into a rib and looked up. "I quit my job."
He showed no reaction, didn't even look up. "Fine. I'll support you."
Those three words came casually. I didn't doubt he had the means—he definitely did—but the sentence sounded more like a promise than a financial fact. It tasted sweet in my ears.
After he peeled the shrimp and set them in a bowl, Ethan reached into his wallet and slid a bank card onto the table, pushing it toward me.
I had a rib in my hand when I asked, "What's this…"
"My card. You can use it whenever you want."
Wow—Ethan in boss-mode totally won me over. I didn't bother with coyness; I shoved the card into my pocket. I've never been demure with him.
I glanced at the wallet he’d left on the table and picked it up. It was stuffed with thick wads of cash; I pinched it. "Why are you carrying so much cash when everyone pays with their phone now?"
He picked a piece of lettuce and put it in my bowl. "I'm not used to phone payments."
As soon as he said it, he seemed to remember something. His hand froze mid-gesture, then he lunged to take the wallet back—but too late.
I had already seen the photo tucked inside the inner fold. The person in that picture was bone-deep familiar.
Silence.
A silence like death.
Ethan pressed his lips together; his voice sounded awkward, "Maya… I—"
"This shrimp is really good. You should have some too."
I snapped back to the present, cutting off whatever explanation he was going to give. I quickly snapped the wallet closed, set it back on the table, and picked up my chopsticks to feed him a shrimp.
So what? I told myself. I already knew. Everything was my choice. Honestly, I was even mentally prepared for him to be calling that other name in bed someday.
I bit another rib and scolded myself inwardly. People—especially me—on matters of the heart always get low and do stupid things.
And so, Ethan and I officially moved in together.
After I quit, I stayed home for a while—shopping, buying clothes, swiping Ethan's card—and then grocery shopping and making a small production out of cooking in the kitchen. I could manage two passable dishes and leave them on the table for him when he got home.
All in all, our life was fairly harmonious.
Ethan was a perfect boyfriend in many ways—attentive, caring in the small things, sensitive to my moods. As a boyfriend, he was flawless—except he didn't love me.
But I kept tamping down my possessiveness. I reminded myself again and again that it wasn't news he didn't love me; I had known from the beginning and had prepared myself.
Still, comfortable days at home had started to feel a little dull. Lately I'd been getting ready to look for work again. My education wasn't high and I had no standout skills; finding a decent job wasn't easy.
At six in the evening I was bored on the couch after watching TV all afternoon, about to start dinner when Ethan's call came through.
"Hey." I took the phone and wandered onto the balcony as he spoke. "Maya, I'm meeting clients tonight. I won't be home. I ordered your favorite takeout—Japanese."
I propped my cheek in my hand and tentatively asked, "Ethan, can I come with you?"
He hesitated, then said softly, "Sweetheart, it's a business meeting. Not appropriate."
I was so bored I pleaded a bit. Ethan had a soft spot for that kind of pestering—he often couldn't resist. After I clung for a while, he relented. "Alright. I'll come back and pick you up. But don't talk nonsense tonight."
"Mission accepted!"
I hung up and changed quickly, did a light makeup, and went downstairs to wait for him. He was fast—the familiar black Land Rover soon pulled up at the curb.
When I climbed in and fastened my seatbelt, I hitching my skirt up a little and looked at him, "How do I look tonight?"
Ethan studied me seriously from head to toe, then nodded. "Pretty."
One of the things I loved about Ethan was that he never gave perfunctory compliments—he actually looked, considered, and appreciated.
I was happy and kissed his cheek. He inhaled more deeply but didn't pull away.
These days, we were closer. He had started to initiate small affectionate moments after work. Whether he loved me or not, he'd clearly gotten used to my presence.
There wasn't much conversation in the car; soft music Ethan liked was on and I played with my phone. Soon the car stopped in the lot of a hotel.
I linked my arm through Ethan's and followed him into a private room. Within minutes everyone arrived—three other bosses and, predictably, each of them had a pretty girl with them.
One of the men in a blue shirt—middle-aged, old enough to be my father—lit up the moment he saw me.
We sat down. I, of course, next to Ethan. The blue-shirted man sat right beside me.
"Mr. Grant, who is this—" he asked, glass in hand, politely.
Ethan looked at me, about to answer, but I cut in. "I can drink. Mr. Grant told me I have to keep these guys happy tonight."
It wasn't a ploy. I just didn't want people to think Ethan was disrespectful for bringing his girlfriend to a business meet.
At first everything was fine—the atmosphere warm and businesslike. I played my part: toasts, drinks, conversation—and the meeting seemed to be going well.
Until a few rounds in, the blue-shirted man—drunk now—grew bold.
They say booze guts a coward; these guys were never cowards. He set down his glass, shot Ethan a loaded look, then put his thick hand on mine and, disgustingly, stroked it. He smirked and said, "Mr. Grant, I'm very sincere about working with you. We'll do a lot of business together…"
I blanched and jerked my hand away, naturally scooting toward Ethan.
The air stiffened.
The blue-shirted man scowled at me and then looked back at Ethan. "Mr. Grant, do you mean to say—what? We can negotiate the deal slowly. Is this about a woman?"
Ethan's gaze dropped, and when it fell on my waist his eyes darkened. He slapped the intruder's hand away, pulled me close, and stood up. "Sorry. We won't be partnering on this deal."
He didn't bother to explain. He grabbed me and started to leave.
The blue-shirted man barked after us, "Mr. Grant, what do you mean? We can talk business. Are you walking away over a woman?"
Ethan stopped, turned, and said, palm on my waist, "She's my girlfriend."
Then without giving him time to respond, he hooked his arm around my waist and walked straight out.
I knew I'd caused trouble; I followed him like a guilty child, hardly daring to breathe until we were in the car. Once the door shut, I glanced at his face and in a low voice suggested, "Do you want me to go home and let you handle this?"
"No."
He started the engine. He sounded calm. "It was a setup. They were trying to push for leverage. I have other partners lined up. Tonight was just to feel people out."
Ethan's words weren't complicated, but to be honest, I didn't fully understand—who was cooperating with whom, what bottom lines were being felt out—Ethan never explained in detail. Even if he had, I wouldn't have understood.
All I knew was, whatever it was, I probably got him into trouble today.
I went home.
I changed into slippers and obediently sat on the couch while Ethan went straight to the kitchen.
A moment later he came out with a steaming cup of milk.
He handed it to me and ruffled my hair. That gesture had started to feel like his new habit.
"Don't think too much. Drink the milk and go to bed."
I nodded, wanting to apologize but not knowing how to start.
That night Ethan never brought up the dinner incident—not a word—and never scolded me either.
But after that day, he did seem busier.
Our life was warm and harmonious, even colorful. I stopped urgently hunting for work and settled into staying home quietly: sleeping until noon, getting up to eat, going shopping or to a spa, buying groceries.
My cooking kept improving, and Ethan noticed.
Not just day-to-day life—things in bed grew more harmonious too.
Ethan stopped being so taut. He'd wrap his arms around me late at night, whisper in my ear, and even try new things. In short, he seemed to be slowly accepting me and genuinely treating me like his other half.
Just like I used to imagine, Ethan was a flawless boyfriend.
The daily grind didn't dampen my love—if anything I cared for him more and more.
One morning I made breakfast and woke Ethan up.
Over time I realized this once-disciplined man had started to linger in bed.
I quietly opened the bedroom door, climbed onto the bed, and bit his cheek.
"Ethan, get up!"
He looked at me with that sleepy haze in his eyes, reached out and pulled me into his arms, then rolled over, pinning me beneath him.
His slightly husky voice sounded above me, "Five more minutes…"
"No," I poked his chest with my fingertip. "You said yesterday you have an important meeting this morning. I have to wake you up."
Ethan didn't answer, but he nuzzled my neck, making me tingle.
His muffled voice came, "If only it wasn't you—you wore me out last night."
I widened my eyes and shoved him. "Ethan, are you for real?"
He'd been insatiable last night—he'd acted like he'd taken something—and I was still sore from it.
Ethan chuckled and set one hand on the mattress, kissing my lips. "You seduced me."
The word "seduced" turned my cheeks bright red.
Was it seduction? I just wore something a little more special.
Ethan laughed softly, finally fully awake, and went to the bathroom.
By the time he finished and came out, I'd already laid out his clothes—suit ironed, tie chosen.
While he dressed he teased, "You're getting more and more domestic."
I snorted. "If you marry me, you're getting such a steal!"
Ethan paused, said nothing.
Honestly, I didn't know why we were so peaceful now. We never spoke about the future—especially marriage.
I knew Ethan, with his temperament, would take responsibility eventually and marry me. But I greedily wanted to wait—wait until he truly wanted to marry me.
If I married him one day, I wanted it to be for love, not duty. Selfish, right?
People seem like that: when you don't have something, you tell yourself being near them is enough, even if they don't love you. But once you're together, you want more—another smile, another kiss, more tenderness, until finally you want all of them, completely.
At the table I scrolled my phone while eating breakfast; Ethan drank coffee and read the paper—such an old-school routine.
Then I saw a video: a new cake shop had opened downtown with a black truffle cake that was a sensation. It was sold at 6 p.m. daily in limited quantities and sold out within minutes. People lined the block; rumor had it even the mayor would have to queue.
I didn't know how it tasted, but the cake's classic black swan design caught my eye.
"Ethan." I tugged his sleeve. "Is this cake pretty?"
I was excited to share, but he only glanced and said, "Pretty."
He finished his coffee in a few sips, folded his paper, and stood. "I'm running late. I have to go."
I opened my mouth but only managed, "Okay."
Since that dinner incident I've tried to be considerate. I knew Ethan's career mattered—if I couldn't help, at least I wouldn't hold him back.
He'd often cuddle me and say, "Maya's being sensible."
That evening I cooked and waited, but he didn't show. He usually got off early and was home by 7:30 unless he had engagements. Tonight he was late. The food got cold and reheated, and I fought the urge to call.
At 9 the door opened.
Ethan walked in, a little windblown, and—like a magician—pulled a delicate cake box from behind him.
It was the very cake from my morning scroll.
I stared as he hung his coat. "Open it."
I carefully opened it. "They make you queue forever for this."
"Mm."
He sat at the table. "I didn't want you to say I wasn't sincere, so I queued and bought it myself."
He cut a piece and fed me a spoonful. It really lived up to the hype: sweet but not cloying, melting on my tongue.
"Ethan." I took his hand and winked. "I have a surprise for you too."
"What surprise?"
I pulled a paper from my pocket and spread it in front of him like a gift.
He glanced and froze.
He didn't just pause—I felt his whole body go rigid.
I hadn't been surprised. What I put in front of him was a medical report.
I was pregnant.
My heart thudded as I watched him react. I worried it might be a shock.
After a moment Ethan snapped back, scooped me up, and said, "Maya Lin, I'm going to be a dad?"
Hearing "dad" from always-careful Ethan made me dizzy.
One hand cradled my belly, the other looped around his neck. "Yes. You're going to be a dad."
Feeling my still-flat belly, a sweetness rushed through me.
In ten months I'd be a mother—and the baby was his.
Just thinking about it filled me with joy. Ethan looked happy too; he seemed to be looking forward to this unexpected life as much as I was.
But once the excitement settled, reality demanded answers.
Pregnant means we needed to prepare to marry. Marrying meant meeting parents—introductions that made me tense.
Since we'd been together, Ethan had never met my mom. Whenever I went home he drove me to the building, dropped me off, and left; he'd only come back to pick me up.
I suggested awkwardly, "Maybe I should tell my mom myself. She won't haggle you for a dowry anyway."
Ethan looked uncomfortable for a moment, then shook his head and took my hand. "I'll go with you. Your marriage is still your mother's business."
He paused and looked down at me. "Besides, it's something we have to face, right?"
I nodded, saying nothing more.
I knew there was no avoiding this—nor the introductions to Ethan's family later—but the thought of him meeting my mom made me nervous. Even if nothing would actually happen, I couldn't help worrying.
Since I was a month along, the schedule tightened: before I showed in three months, we had to sort the introductions, talk wedding plans, and get everything moving so I wouldn't be visibly pregnant at the ceremony.
So the day Ethan met my mom finally arrived—and it was far more awkward than either of us expected.
Ethan came to my house carrying a stack of gifts. My mom stood in the doorway; she and Ethan stared at each other for a long beat before she waved him off with a breezy, "Fine. We're each our own person—just call me by my name."
Even setting aside old feelings, she and Ethan had been friends for thirty years, and "mother-in-law" choked on both of them.
Once inside, I sat on the couch, more relaxed than Ethan, and watched my mom and Uncle Carl make tea. I rubbed my belly and asked, "Mom, how much dowry do you want?"
My mom gave me a look, then turned to Ethan and said sharply, "That depends on his sincerity."
Ethan sat up straight, looking sincere. "One hundred thousand."
He lifted his cup, sipped tea, then asked, "Is that enough?"
I sat there stunned.
One million as a betrothal gift?
I mean, sure—some wealthy families wouldn't bat an eye at ten million—but I’ve been an ordinary girl my whole life. My mom raised me by working odd jobs. When I worked at Riverside Manufacturing, I only made a few thousand a month.
One million was astronomical to me.
I swallowed and tried to refuse, but my mom cut me off with a look.
"Okay."
She answered simply, with no hesitation.
She looked at Ethan Grant steadily, serious. "You know, if it were anyone else wanting to marry Maya, I wouldn't fuss over a thirty- or fifty-thousand gift. But Maya has her heart set on you, and she's pregnant. You two are at different stages in life—nobody can predict what'll happen. I have to secure something for her."
My mom wasn't beating around the bush. She spoke plainly, the way friends of many years do.
Ethan nodded. "I understand. Don't worry. I can come up with that money. After we marry I'll transfer the house into Maya's name, and—"
He paused, pressed his lips together, then took my hand. "I won't betray her."
"I won't betray her." That was the promise he gave me, and to my mom.
My mom's expression softened. "Don't worry, I won't touch a cent of that betrothal money. Let Maya save it herself. I'll do what I can for her dowry. Whatever other families give, Maya won't get less."
Ethan nodded and fell silent.
The mood got a bit awkward.
It grew heavier when we started talking about meeting Ethan's parents.
Just then, Uncle Carl broke the tension at the right moment. "Come on. I booked a place ahead. Let's go eat and talk."
Everyone agreed and rose.
I reached to loop my arm through Ethan's out of habit. But the man who used to slip his arm around my waist flinched the moment my hand touched his arm.
He pulled away awkwardly.
My hand grabbed at air.
Ethan shot a quick glance toward my mom at the entrance—she was changing shoes—and tensed, then mouthed an apology to me in a low voice. "I'm sorry… I…"
"It's fine."
I answered quickly, not wanting him to see the disappointment in my eyes. I smiled and let my hand fall away from his arm, as if trying to reassure him—and myself. "You'll get used to it."
We got into the car.
Ethan drove. Uncle Carl, prone to motion sickness, sat shotgun. My mom and I rode in back.
The window was half down and a cool breeze drifted in.
I turned and looked at my mom.
Time had been kind to some people—like Ethan, like my mom.
In her forties, if you didn't get up close you couldn't see a single crow's foot. Calling her eighteen would be ridiculous, but if you said she was twenty-eight, most people would believe it.
She exercised regularly, kept an excellent figure, carried herself with confidence, and with that delicate face of hers, it's not an exaggeration to say people sometimes flirted with her when we went out.
Compared to twenty-somethings, she had a little more allure.
If I were Ethan, I might've liked my mom too.
Maybe sensing my stare, she turned and took me in for a moment, then gently squeezed my hand without a word.
The car was quiet.
We followed Uncle Carl's directions and pulled into a hotel parking lot.
We stepped inside.
The hotel was mid-upscale with decent prices—always busy. Uncle Carl had reserved two days in advance but couldn't get a private room, so we had a window table in the main dining hall.
The four of us sat. Uncle Carl poured water for my mom and handed the menus to Ethan and me. "Pick whatever you like. Order freely. Don't be shy."
He grinned like the amiable guy he was.
Once you got to know him, my mom had been right—Uncle Carl was genuinely lovable. He looked like a big, tough guy with tattoos on his arms, the kind who'd look like a mob enforcer, but he was easy to get along with. Praise would make him blush and rub the back of his neck like a bashful teddy bear.
We ordered and waited, when a commotion erupted at the next table.
Seven or eight middle-aged men sat there. They hadn't ordered much food, but they'd set up a whole table of alcohol. It was barely noon and they were already plastered.
Drunk men usually start trouble. Sure enough, they were talking and soon began arguing. At first I glanced over out of curiosity, not worried.
Then the arguing turned to cursing, and then to fighting.
It happened so fast nearby tables hardly had time to react before bottles and dishes flew.
Bang!
Someone hurled a teacup, and by awful luck it struck my mom in the head.
She gave a sharp cry and clutched her head—whatever hit her hurt.
Everything had happened so suddenly. Even Uncle Carl, who had been facing the other way, didn't react fast enough. Ethan and I watched in disbelief.
Uncle Carl sprang up, rolled his sleeves, exposing those arm tattoos. I thought he was going to bluff—but he didn't hesitate. He charged forward.
I had to apologize to my earlier impression of Uncle Carl as "gentlemanly"—the guy could handle himself. In two quick moves he knocked one guy down and grabbed his collar, furious. "Who the hell threw that cup?"
The drunks were stunned, then swarmed Uncle Carl.
Ethan, my mom, and I rushed over.
To avoid things getting worse, my mom and I tried to break it up. Hotel security arrived and finally separated the two groups.
Back at our table, Uncle Carl fussed over my mom's reddened forehead and asked for ice. He carefully pressed it to her wound.
My mom looked guilty about the fuss and shoved him playfully. "I'm fine. It's just a little bump. I'm not that delicate."
But Uncle Carl gave her a look and grabbed her hand to stop her from pushing him away. "Little bump? I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."
His voice was loud, and one of the neighboring drunks hollered back, "Who you calling trash, huh?"
Uncle Carl had a temper too and stood up again. The situation might have escalated if my mom hadn't hurriedly calmed him.
When things settled, Uncle Carl apologized to Ethan and me, scratching his head. "Sorry for stirring things up. I'm usually fine with whatever people say… but when it comes to Lena, I—"
I waved him off. "You care about my mom? I'm grateful."
He chuckled shyly. "What can I say? I'm a coward as soon as I see her."
My mom shot him a look and playfully scolded him. The little episode passed.
But I noticed Ethan had been unusually quiet.
The drunks left noisily after finishing their meal, and the rest of our lunch was peaceful.
After we ate, Uncle Carl went to pay.
We were walking to the parking lot and still talking about when to meet Ethan's parents.
Ethan had suggested having his parents come to meet my mom out of respect, but she refused, waving him off. "I'd call them aunt and uncle! How can I make them come here? We'll go to your house to discuss the wedding."
We were nearly at the car when suddenly an engine roared behind us—
I was right behind Ethan and glanced back, squinting into the glare of headlights.
Before we could process it, a white car accelerated and barreled straight toward us.
Instinctively I shouted toward my mom, "Get out of the way!"
We all reacted differently in the split second.
I cupped my belly with one hand and reached for Ethan, trying to shove him out of the way.
My mom ran forward, terrified, trying to shield me.
Uncle Carl and Ethan moved in the same instant. In a perfect, unspoken coordination they dove in front of my mom and pushed her out of the way.
Four of us were there—only I was in the car's path.
It all felt slow, but in reality there were only seconds from the first engine sound to the impact. We didn't have time to think. It was all reflex.
I felt a brutal blow and was thrown into the air.
"Maya!"
"Maya!"
Voices called out. I hit the ground and my head went blank.
Everything blurred.
"Maya…"
Someone touched my arm gently. Ethan's voice, shaky and small, called my name. "Maya…"
I opened my eyes and saw his panicked face above me.
It made my chest ache. I tried to answer to comfort him, but blackness crept in and I lost consciousness.
When I woke up again, I was in a hospital.
White everywhere.
A few people sat in the room, their faces drawn. My mom was at the bedside.
"Maya!"
She grabbed my hand and burst into tears. "You're finally awake…"
My head felt like it was splitting, my body heavy.
"Have I been out long?" I croaked.
My mom choked up. "Almost three days. You scared me to death…"
Seeing my mom like that made my heart ache. I tried to soothe her in a hoarse voice. "I'm okay. Don't worry."
But for some reason there was a shadow in her eyes she didn't explain.
After calming her a little, I looked up and saw Ethan not far off, his face taut with worry.
Our eyes met. His looked brighter for a moment, but then he quickly looked away, as if he couldn't bear it for long.
Yeah.
When it came down to the moment of danger, he left his pregnant fiancée to die and instead lunged to save her mother.
Ridiculous, isn’t it?
I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped me—laughing at how tragic and absurd this whole thing had been.
We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then I slowly turned my head to my mother. “Mom, the baby… is it still there?”
The moment the words left my mouth I already had a bad feeling.
I’d been unconscious for nearly three days. How could a child inside me possibly be unharmed?
Sure enough, the answer matched my worst fears.
My mother’s eyes were red; she smoothed my hair and said softly, “Maya… sweetie, we can have babies again later.”
“Again later…” So that meant—my baby, the one I’d been carrying for Ethan Grant, was gone.
“Oh.”
I stayed frozen for a long time, then let out a quiet, flat, “It’s for the best.”
For the best.
Only then did it hit me: even if the baby had been born and raised in that cold, loveless house, maybe it wouldn’t have had a happy life anyway.
Sensing something was wrong, my mom exchanged a look with Uncle Carl and the two of them left the room together.
The hospital room was suddenly just Ethan and me.
I kept my eyes down. He stood a short distance away, wordless.
Silence stretched between us.
After a while he moved, slowly walking closer.
He sat on the bedside and took my hand; he seemed startled by how cool my fingertips felt.
“Maya…”
He said my name in a low, rough voice.
I stayed quiet for a few seconds, then looked up at him. Ethan’s face was calm but his brow was tight, his eyes rimmed red, his face stubbled and tired.
He gripped my hand hard, guilt written all over him. “Maya, I’m sorry. We’ll have kids again. Don’t be sad.”
I didn’t answer. I just looked at him, from his eyes down to his mouth, tracing the features of the man I’d fallen for when I first felt love stir.
Same face, same eyes—yet for the first time they felt a little unfamiliar.
I raised my hand and brushed the side of his face. “It’s okay.”
A strange sourness pricked my nose. I hadn’t cried from waking up or even from hearing the baby was gone, but suddenly my eyes were wet.
I watched him silently. “It won’t happen again.”
Ethan blinked, surprised.
It won’t happen again.
I was talking about the baby—but it was more than that.
When he met my gaze, his eyes filled with tears again. The crease between his brows drew tight, carving a weary line.
“Maya, don’t say that. We’ll be fine. We will—”
He stopped as I cut him off.
“We’ll be fine, you’ll take responsibility for me, we’ll be respectful to each other for life—then what? Are we supposed to never see my mother again?”
Ethan’s words died in his throat.
For some reason, though my chest ached, I tried not to cry in front of him.
I drew a breath and forced the grief down, then looked at him. “Ethan, give me some time. I need to think.”
He was quiet a long time. Finally he nodded.
He leaned over and tucked the blanket around me. His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
I stared at that all-too-familiar face and couldn’t help asking, “If you could do it all over, what would you choose?”
He hesitated two seconds, then looked at me with a seriousness that stung. “I would save you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I pulled my hand from under the blanket and set it on the edge of the bed. “Is that because of duty?”
He was silent again. One second, two. Just when I was ready to give up, he shook his head. “Maya, I… I really regret it.”
I smiled, but didn’t say another word.
For a sliver of a moment a new disappointment bloomed in me. The man I’d held on a pedestal for years—the man I’d considered a hero—wavered. The statue I’d built in my heart seemed to crumble into shards.
Yes, he regretted it. If he could go back, maybe he would have chosen me.
But what good did that do now?
When the real danger came, even though I was carrying his child, he abandoned me and ran toward another woman. Even if that woman was my mother, I couldn’t get past it.
I closed my eyes. “I’m tired.”
After a while Ethan’s voice came from above me: “Sleep. I’ll stay here. Call me if you need anything.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t open my eyes. The room was quiet, and I finally drifted off.
That whole day my mother and Ethan sat at the hospital; sometimes my mom deliberately left to give us space to speak.
She wanted us to talk things out, but some wounds don’t untangle so easily. The real ones aren’t words you can say out loud.
As evening approached, I noticed something was wrong.
Why couldn’t I feel my legs?
No matter how I asked, my mom and Ethan told me the same thing: I’d been given anesthesia during surgery; the drugs hadn’t fully worn off.
When I tried to sit up they came up with more excuses and refused. I grew suspicious.
When Ethan was called to the doctor’s office and I feigned sleep, my mother took a tissue and went to the restroom. Hearing the door close, I opened my eyes and tried again to sit up—but my lower body was numb, utterly useless.
I tried twice and couldn’t. I tugged the blanket down—and screamed.
For a couple seconds I was stunned, then a scream tore out of me.
I stared in horror at my lower half. Where my legs should have been, there was only emptiness.
The door slammed open. Ethan rushed in, momentarily frozen, then scooped me into his arms.
“Don’t look, Maya… don’t look.”
His voice shook. He held me awkwardly, hands stiff. “Maya…”
He choked out the words, “I already asked the doctors. They can fit prosthetics. I’ll find the best surgeons. I don’t care if it costs everything—we’ll get you fixed. Don’t be afraid. I’ll always be with you… I’ll protect you…”
And then he broke down, sobbing.
He held me and cried into my hair. My mind went blank.
I barely registered his words. All I could hear over and over in my head was one sentence: I, Maya Lin, have become disabled.
Ethan’s hot tears soaked my neck.
I sat frozen for a long time before I could think clearly. I pushed him away and reached to look, but he’d already drawn the sheets up to cover me.
I looked at him, dazed. “Ethan, do you think I’ll even be able to take care of myself?”
At that question Ethan collapsed emotionally.
In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him slump by my bedside, sobbing like this.
Logically, I knew I should be the one to cry. Strangely, not a single tear fell from me.
“Ethan,” I whispered, “the people who hit me with their car—the drunk guys at the neighboring table—right? They ran me over.”
He sobbed for a long time before he could say, “Yes…”
He held me tighter, fingers combing through my hair as if steadying himself. “Maya, I’ll use every connection I have to make them pay.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
I didn’t doubt him. But the more I thought about revenge and sentences, the less I cared. My mind kept returning to one thing: what would my life be like from now on?
Was I really going to be useless?
If I couldn’t manage basic things, how would I live?
I didn’t know. Maybe no one could give me that answer.
People always end up stronger than they imagine.
I accepted the reality quickly. In the face of this accident, I was calmer than anyone else.
My mother, Ethan, and Uncle Carl lived in regret. They all looked worn to the bone, groaning with guilt.
That night Uncle Carl even knelt by my bed, sobbing, saying that if he hadn’t gotten into that fight with those guys that day, none of this would’ve happened.
I patted his hand and murmured, “It’s not your fault, Uncle Carl. Get up.”
He hadn’t done anything wrong—he’d tried to protect my mother. No one could have predicted what happened afterward.
Even though I said it didn’t matter, they all lived in blame. Especially Ethan.
He seemed to age overnight. In just a few days the warm, boyish man I knew turned into a hollow, stubbled, exhausted man. His bright eyes were dimmed.
I didn’t know if his change was all guilt, or if there were regrets and tenderness in it too.
I couldn’t trust him anymore.
And for me, nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Since I woke up I’d quietly accepted everything, but in silence I shut myself in a little dark room. My world felt utterly black.
Ethan didn’t stop. He tore through his network of contacts and spent money as if there was no tomorrow, all for one purpose: to get the drunk driver who’d intentionally hit me the harshest sentence.
In the end, the man got ten years.
Ten years. Ten years behind bars for the rest of my life.
After the trial Ethan began hunting down top surgeons and specialists all over the country to treat me. Everyone knew it was mostly for his peace of mind—ultimately it meant prosthetics. After all, I hadn’t just suffered a fracture. It was amputation.
But Ethan refused to give up and found the most reputable doctors to prepare prosthetics for me.
I never asked a single question.
Prosthetics. No matter how sophisticated, they’re still artificial—like my relationship with Ethan.
It looked warm. We hugged, kissed, shared a bed; at our most intimate moments he whispered he loved me.
And in the end?
All of it was a mirage. When danger hit, his first choice was never me.
False is false—it couldn’t withstand a test.
I wore a calm expression on my face, but inside grew only more desolation.
Also, I recently heard a joke. It’s a really funny one.
One night, Ethan got drunk. It was just the two of us in the hospital room. He held my hand and cried like his heart would break.
He said he lived every day and night in regret and torment, that he wished it had been him in the hospital bed instead of me.
He even said…during those days I was unconscious, he finally realized that he had already fallen in love with me.
He just hadn’t been aware of it before.
It was love, not duty.
Not a fallback, not something forced—he truly wanted to protect me, truly wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
Tell me, isn’t that hilarious?
Strangely, hearing his confession—words that in the past would have sent me into tears and trembling with emotion—now I felt peculiarly calm.
Not a single ripple stirred in my heart.
Lying in that hospital bed, I watched him quietly and didn’t say a word the entire time.
But inside, I sighed softly.
Too late.
Ethan, far too late.
The days blurred by.
Later, they fitted me with prosthetic legs and I began a long stretch of rehab and recovery training.
I didn’t get used to those fake legs. In the middle of the night I’d wake up staring at them and feel terrified.
Ethan took me home, but then I started having nightmares every night.
Each time I woke up screaming and crying.
And Ethan would always be the first to hold me, pulling me tightly into his arms, his voice low and soothing.
“It’s okay, Maya. I’m here.”
“I’m here, don’t be afraid.”
He soothed me over and over, but he didn’t understand that his presence no longer gave me even a shred of safety.
What broke me most wasn’t the moment he abandoned me, and it wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t walk.
It was that I had truly become useless.
I couldn’t just relearn walking—I couldn’t even take care of myself properly.
After being discharged, Ethan stayed by my side day and night for many days. He took care of everything—meals, bathing, bathroom needs—with meticulous attention.
He was careful and considerate.
But I found it harder and harder to accept.
I couldn’t be intimate with him like before, because I needed him to carry me to the bathroom.
Actually, the doctors suggested I use special bed equipment to handle bodily functions temporarily, but I refused.
I couldn’t bring myself to do that in bed, so I insisted Ethan carry me to the toilet.
I became more withdrawn, and everyone around me turned quiet too. Not just my mother and Ethan—even Uncle Carl, who used to scratch his head and grin goofily, grew somber and never laughed.
Ethan stayed with me a long time, but the finances couldn’t keep up.
All the connections he used to find doctors and arrange treatment had nearly wiped out his savings, and the business he’d handed to his subordinates took a nosedive.
To make money to support me, Ethan had to run back and forth between the company and home every day.
My mother was supposed to take a turn caring for me, but misfortune piled on misfortune—she fell ill.
After days of worry and stress her health deteriorated; she had appendicitis and needed surgery.
It was a small operation, but required bed rest. Reluctantly, Ethan hired a female caregiver.
She was in her forties or fifties. When Ethan was around she took care of me carefully and was polite. But when it was just the two of us at home, she often muttered nearby, the kind of stuff like, “Living like this is pathetic, might as well die,” or “Can’t control eating and bathroom stuff—so gross.”
I could hear her, but I didn’t have the energy to scold her.
Each day I sank deeper into gloom. I shut myself off, insisting the caregiver close the heavy curtains to blot out all sunlight and brightness.
Every day I lay alone in that dim room. One absent-minded moment could swallow the whole day.
I think my mind started to warp.
My temper grew dark and violent.
I began to vent—taking all my frustration out on Ethan when he got home from work.
I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.
Countless nights, in the dead quiet, I would grab his arm and bite him like a lunatic, continuing until the metallic tang of blood filled our mouths.
I’d pull at him, crying, hurling the cruelest words.
“Ethan, I hate you! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be like this!”
Even though I knew the person who ruined me wasn’t really him.
He hadn’t done anything—he’d simply failed to protect me in the first moment.
But I still blamed him.
So many nights I cried and cursed and bit and said I hated him. Each time he would hold me without complaint, letting me take it out on him.
More often, though, he’d hold me and cry too. His quiet sobs would fill the room, and eventually that would infect me, and we’d end up sobbing together in the empty space.
We tormented each other and relied on one another.
More than once I thought about ending it, but I held back.
I couldn’t leave my mother—she’d raised me alone and I knew I was her whole life’s work and hope.
I couldn’t bear to leave Ethan either. Love and hate tangled together, and even so, I couldn’t let him go.
Every day, I lived in chaos and instability.
Sometimes I’d lie in the dark all day with a sullen face; sometimes I’d grab Ethan and cry and blame him; sometimes I’d try to find a way to die.
Round and round it went.
I felt like I was going mad from my own self-torment.
The thing that finally broke me was September 2nd.
I remember it clearly because it also happened to be our one-year anniversary.
Maybe it was something about the lunch the caregiver made that day—around the time Ethan was due home, my stomach went sideways.
My lower stomach twisted in pain. I clutched the sheets and called for the caregiver, but she was in the living room and answered lazily, then didn’t come.
No matter how much I shouted, she ignored me.
I could hardly hold it anymore. Ever since the accident I’d had trouble controlling bodily functions.
Luckily, just as I was about to soil myself, Ethan came home.
As always, the first thing he did was come into the room to see me.
“Maya,” he turned on the light, carrying a small cake box. “Happy one year, baby.”
It was the kind of cake he’d once stood in line to buy for me.
“Ethan…” I managed to say, but I had no strength to look at the cake. My face must have been bright red.
“I need to go to the bathroom…”
Ethan froze, quickly set the cake down, scooped me up, and hurried toward the bathroom.
But…it was too late.
No matter how hard I tried, my body betrayed me. While Ethan held me, I soiled myself.
A foul smell hung in the air.
I stood there stunned for a long time, and then finally collapsed into a sob.
How did this happen… I hadn’t done anything so terrible in my life—aside from childhood mischief, not loving school, and falling for a man older than me who didn’t love me back. What had I done to deserve this?
Ethan’s eyes were rimmed red. He held me tight and whispered reassurances over and over.
He carried me to the bathroom, took off my clothes, and washed me with warm water.
I just stared at him.
This man—he suddenly looked so old.
Before the accident he’d seemed like a young guy in his early twenties, but in a few short months he’d aged decades.
Stubble covered his jaw, dark circles ringed his eyes, red veins clouded the whites, and there were already a few gray hairs visible when he pushed his hair back.
Now he looked worn down, like a man of forty or fifty.
He cleaned me carefully, comforting me in a low voice and telling jokes to help me forget the humiliation.
He didn’t know his sleeve was smudged with filth; to me that detail burned my eyes.
That night I didn’t yell at him. I didn’t grab his collar and accuse him, didn’t cry myself raw.
Against my usual habit, I held him instead.
Ethan’s body went stiff but he trembled as he wrapped his arms around me and said he loved me over and over.
But I was no longer that girl who’d smile in a heartbeat at the words “I love you.”
That night was the only night after the accident that I slept soundly.
The next day Ethan took a rare day off to stay with me.
Lately he’d been running himself ragged between home and the company, but I knew he was working that hard for me.
My ongoing treatments cost a lot. Even for Ethan, it was a burden.
“Maya.”
Early morning, Ethan got dressed, shaved, and drew back the heavy curtains. “Tonight I have a very important banquet to attend. Will you wait for me at home tonight?”
He came to the bed and smoothed my hair. “I’m meeting with a client there. If the deal goes through, the company can get back on track and we can focus on your treatment. Okay?”
He coaxed me in that careful, childlike tone.
I lay still and watched him. “Okay.”
After a pause I asked quietly, “Ethan, can you take me with you?”
He hesitated—at first I thought he might react with reluctance or embarrassment, but he didn’t.
Unexpectedly his eyes lit up. He took my hand, surprised and delighted. “You want to go? Great. I’ll get a makeup artist to come by in the afternoon and do your makeup. I’ll bring you to the banquet.”
He lowered his head and his eyes shone. “You wanting to go is the best thing.”
I watched him quietly. “Okay.”
Ethan spent the rest of the day in a good mood.
Because today I didn’t drown in self-pity or burst into dark crying. Today I felt…okay.
I smiled at him sometimes and gently held his hand.
In the afternoon, the makeup artist arrived at the house as promised. I called Ethan to the bedside. "Ethan, I want the riverfront snail noodles from that place on the street."
He blinked. "Now?"
"Yeah."
I nodded. "Sudden craving."
"Okay."
He didn't hesitate. Then he gently ruffled my hair. "I'll go get it right now."
After saying that, he reminded me of a couple things and turned to leave.
When he reached the doorway, I suddenly called after him, stopping him. "Remember to get one of those little cakes I love, Uncle Ethan!"
He froze for a moment at the unexpected honorific. Coming back to himself, he smiled. "Don't worry."
Then he turned and hurried out.
The door closed behind him. Only when I was sure he'd left did I look at the makeup artist. She looked younger than thirty, with long black hair and a calm, gentle demeanor.
"Sorry," I said softly. "I need to use the bathroom. Could you step out for a moment?"
She was clearly taken aback, her eyes flicking instinctively to the bed. "Do you need me to help you?"
"No," I gave a small smile. "I have a prosthetic. I can manage."
She nodded. "If you need anything, just call me."
She left and, to protect my privacy, closed the door behind her.
I lay back and smiled.
Yes, I had a prosthetic limb—but I didn't actually know how to use it. I never practiced because I couldn't bring myself to accept it.
I'd long since stopped caring.
I lifted the pillow and took out the small fruit knife I'd hidden there—a knife one of the nurses had left when she cut an apple by my bed a couple days ago.
I'd hidden it for two days but never found the courage.
Until last night. After what happened yesterday, any will to keep living had been extinguished.
Mom, I'm sorry. You might be disappointed, but I really can't keep living like this.
I couldn't accept becoming a cripple in my early twenties, condemned to a broken life.
I wanted Ethan's memory of me—Maya—to stay as the girl who was loud and silly, who looped her arm through his and teased him, who flirted with him in bed: bright, full of life, flesh and blood.
Not as that useless body who lost control and dirtied her pants while in his arms—Shen… Maya—to be nothing but a waste.
Forget who was right or wrong before. Let it end now.
I took a deep breath, gripped the knife, and with a slow, steady motion cut deep into my wrist.
I meant to die. I put strength into that cut.
Blood gushed out immediately.
Strangely, there was almost no pain. I simply watched the dark ribbon of blood spread.
There wasn't any panic about death—only a curious, small relief.
I was still blaming Ethan, of course. If he came back and found I'd killed myself, he'd finally understand what I meant when I said "Uncle Ethan" as I left.
In my life, I'd known him for twenty years and always called him by his name without formality.
The only time I'd properly called him "Uncle"—respectfully—was at my goodbye.
Uncle Ethan.
I didn't leave a note. I left only a letter to my mother in my email. For Ethan, I left no words—only that last "Uncle Ethan" as my final message to him.
He would understand. The single time I called him "uncle" was to say, gently, that I regretted it.
I regretted being so reckless when I was young, making love my entire light and throwing everything away for him.
I regretted knowing he belonged to someone else and yet plunging into the flames, staying by his side, even getting pregnant with his child.
Uncle Ethan—if there is another life, if we meet again, if you're still fifteen years older than me—
Then in the next life just be my uncle.
Being lovers is too exhausting.
I felt the blood draining; my vision blurred.
Before I lost consciousness completely, I faintly heard the makeup artist scream. Then a roar of noise, pierced by Ethan's trembling voice.
He choked, crying that he was wrong, begging me to come back.
My sight faded.
I couldn't come back.
Uncle Ethan.
Ethan's epilogue: Maya's gone.
I didn't get her the snail noodles or the cake. On my way, the more I thought, the more anxious I became. Something felt off.
What was it?
Maybe… it was the way she called me "Uncle Ethan."
She'd never followed rules—she'd always called me by my name, even from childhood, especially as she grew up.
So why would that same rule-defying girl suddenly, in a moment, use the formal "uncle"?
The thought nagged me so I rushed back.
But it was too late.
When I saw the makeup artist standing at the stairwell, my heart plummeted.
She explained franticly that Maya had told her she needed to use the bathroom and asked her to wait outside.
Maya couldn't possibly have gotten out of bed!
Her words made my blood run cold. I ran upstairs.
The instant I opened the door, the metallic stench of blood hit me.
The girl who used to laugh and play, whose eyes always lit up when she looked at me—she lay still in a pool of blood, utterly faded.
I stumbled to her, wanting to pick her up, but she was so thin, so small, so pale and fragile—like something that would shatter at a touch.
I couldn't bring myself to touch her.
Blood blinded me. My hands shook as I took out my phone to call for help; it slipped from my grasp and hit the floor with a dull sound.
The makeup artist came over, terrified. "Mr. Grant, I've called an ambulance, but please—you should check her breathing first."
I reached out, fingers trembling uncontrollably.
I placed them in front of her nose… no life.
My Maya had left this world with a tragic ending.
If I could turn back time, I would go back to the day of the accident. At the moment the car came at her, I would have shielded her with my body.
But life deals consequences, not ifs.
Time can't be rewound. Maya was gone forever.
To be honest, for a while I treated Maya like a burden.
When that familiar kid became my girlfriend overnight, I felt disoriented and unable to adapt.
I blamed myself for that night—my inability to control myself after too much drink. I resented the idea of being bound to her for life.
I convinced myself we were together out of responsibility and not love.
But in the end, stripping away all pretenses, I realized the so-called drunken mistake wasn't the truth.
Even if it was alcohol, that night cracking the last line of defense wasn't about the drink—it was about the heart.
That sudden flutter, the fall that night—I told myself we stayed together out of duty, pretending reluctance, while enjoying her young body and secretly thinking of someone else in the nights.
Only after she died did I see clearly: I, Ethan Grant, was the worst man I'd ever known.
No contest.
I also understood why, when she sent me away that day, she suddenly called me "Uncle Ethan."
She'd known me for years; even as a kid she'd brazenly use my name. The only time she used "uncle" properly was in a farewell.
I realized she was saying goodbye in her own way.
She was gently and decisively telling me she was leaving me—completely. And even if there were another life, she didn't intend to be entangled with me. If we met again, he'd only be her uncle.
Every time I think of that "Uncle Ethan," my chest aches.
I might have been successful in my career, but in the year I turned thirty-six I lost the girl who lit up at the sight of me, and I finally understood:
How utterly failed my life had been.
Halfway through life, approaching middle age, I couldn't even feel my own heart—maybe I had felt it all along during the daily closeness and just pretended not to.
On Qingming, I stood before her gravestone and looked at the black-and-white photo.
Maya wore a white dress, smiling—star-bright in her eyes, radiant.
I wiped dust from the stone with my hand. "Maya, I'm here."
But she didn't seem to want to see me.
No sooner had the words left me than a gust of wind blew ashes from a nearby burning of spirit money. An ember landed on the back of my hand.
The burn stung. I pulled my hand back, and my heart dropped to the bottom of a well.
In the end, it was my fault.
After the accident she never blamed me with words, but the image of that moment became a wound in her heart—and in mine.
I dusted the stone and talked to her until dusk. Then I rose to leave.
"Maya, I'm going."
No answer came.
But in the dark stone I saw my reflection—haggard, exhausted, with streaks of gray hair.
Since she died, no one leaned on my shoulder to mischievously pluck an emerging white hair.
I walked away, yet the memory surfaced—the girl with her hand around my neck and the other in my hair, squealing whenever she found a white strand, "Ethan, are you greying?"
Usually I was hunched over papers on the bed, and I'd smile helplessly. "I'm thirty-five. Not exactly grey."
She'd tug my neck and press her cheek to mine like a kitten: "No way! To me, you're always a boy!"
She'd pledge it like an oath, turning my face to repeat seriously, "Always. Forever."
Back then she could never have imagined that one day she'd use a single "Uncle Ethan" as our parting.
That night, I lay in bed. The room was empty and pitch dark.
Ever since Maya left, I let go of the part-time help and refused to see anyone.
I liked piling into my room, drawing the heavy curtains, and lying in a dark, sunless room for whole days.
The bed was still the same one; I couldn't bring myself to replace it.
Was that twisted?
But only like that did I feel a little closer to her.
And the closer I thought I was, the worse the grief became.
Only after putting myself in her place did I understand the kind of torment she endured day and night.
She was such a frightened, delicate girl—afraid of pain, afraid of dying. What kind of agony had to have driven her to cut so deeply and decisively?
I couldn't bear to imagine it.
Every thought shredded me.
The bedroom door was open. I lay very still on the bed, my head growing heavier.
There was a faint, indescribable smell in the air.
Gas.
I lay with my eyes closed and my thoughts running wild.
I must've forgotten to turn off the gas. Since Maya died my memory had been awful.
No—wrong.
I had turned it on.
I hadn't intended to keep living.
I'd seen power and money in my life, but in matters of the heart I was utterly bankrupt—utterly defeated.
Day after day, my heart had been occupied more and more by memories of that girl who used to smile with crescent eyes. Then the remorse and guilt kept baking me alive.
After Maya left, I hadn't slept a full night once.
I wanted to see her, to hold her hand and tell her I didn't actually want to be her uncle.
Even if saying it now was probably too late.
If, in Maya Lin's story, life really could be given another shot, what would you choose?
Would you make the same mistake again?
I slit my wrists. I died.
But after some time, I woke up.
I opened my eyes and it was a year earlier.
I was fine, lying in my bed. The calendar on the wall made the date crystal clear.
I stared for a long time, then, trembling, I threw the covers back. My legs—both whole, uninjured—were under the blanket.
For a moment I felt like I had crossed worlds. I covered my face with both hands and broke into sobs.
The door burst open and my mom rushed in. "What's wrong, Maya?"
She wore a floral apron, breathless and worried, and when she came in she brought the faint, comforting smell of chicken soup.
I looked up at her for a long time, then shook my head slightly. "Nothing. Just a nightmare."
A nightmare—yes. A long, agonizing nightmare.
She patted my shoulder, half-amused and half-concerned. "You're grown. Crying over a nightmare?"
She ruffled my nose, untied her apron. "I just got called in for overtime. I won't be home tonight."
She glanced at the clock. "The chicken soup's on the stove—remember to eat it."
"Okay."
I answered dutifully and watched her leave.
Before I could savor this "resurrection," the door was knocked.
I got up to open it.
Standing there was Ethan Grant.
Seeing his face froze me in place.
Two lives lived, and I wasn't psychologically prepared to see him—yet here he was, suddenly in front of me.
My body went rigid and my breath caught.
For no reason my eyes filled with tears.
Only when I remembered the date on the calendar did realization hit me: I'd been sent back to the night I had been with Ethan—before everything had happened.
A year earlier, Ethan loved wearing white shirts. His black hair just grazed his brow; the years hadn't left many marks on him. In his thirties, he still had a boyish feel.
It had been so long since I'd seen him like this.
In the last life, his final impression to me had been stubble, dark circles, and exhaustion.
I stood there a long time, then took a small step back and managed a light laugh as I said, "Uncle Ethan."
That "Uncle Ethan" was both farewell and greeting.
For some reason the moment I called him that, his body froze.
He stared at me blankly. His expression didn't change, but the light in his eyes suddenly dimmed.
I had a vague sense of something else—what if I wasn't the only one who'd been reborn?
Having died once seemed to have hardened me compared to before.
I watched him quietly, watched the light leaving his eyes, watched him swallow his feelings, watched him make his rims redden with effort.
Finally I spoke, my voice husky.
"Uncle Ethan, is something wrong?"
Time really had rolled back a year.
He stared at me for a long moment before his voice went hoarse. "Nothing. I had a fight at home and thought I'd come over to find your mom and drink."
The same words he'd said in the other life.
I nodded. "My mom got called into work—she's on night shift. She won't be back."
Ethan had watched me the whole time. Slowly he said the same line he had before: "In that case, never mind. You stay home… be careful."
He drew a breath and spoke the same old line, "Then—I'll go now."
Everything felt identical to before.
The only difference was me. In the last life I'd impulsively offered to be his drinking buddy, to drown the night with him. This time I watched him quietly. I told myself I was hardened, but my eyes still stung.
I nodded. "Okay. Goodbye, Uncle Ethan."
The moment I said it I saw the last of his light go out.
"Goodbye."
He turned and left slowly.
The door closed gently. It made no sound, and yet to me it rang like thunder.
I knew—and knew that he knew—that this was our real, final goodbye.
From then on, he'd only ever be Uncle Ethan to me.
Strange, isn't it?
In the last life I defied the world to be with him; he didn't love me and yet I stayed. I gave everything up to remain by his side even though he may never have loved me.
But now, he seemed to truly love me. A second life, a fresh start—maybe we could cast everything aside and be together. It was the kind of fairy-tale ending after trials.
And I gave it up.
Self-indulgent? Maybe. Or maybe not. From the moment of that car crash—when he left me and the child I carried behind and risked his life to save my mother—I finally understood:
Whether he loved me then didn't matter.
Whether he'd love me later didn't matter.
Uncle Carl once told me, and Mom agreed, that my mother and I are the stubborn type.
Most people keep hitting a wall until they finally stop, but we? We smash through the wall and still refuse to turn back.
It's true—we're both like that.
But in the last life, when I hit that wall, I didn't shatter it; I simply died upon it.
Now that I'm reborn, will I try to kill myself again?
No.
Repeating the same mistake is never a synonym for happiness.
So when we meet again in the future, I'll call him Uncle Ethan and nothing more.
