Ashes Under the Willow Tree

The night after we finished registering for elementary school, Jennifer did not come home.

Cyrus and I sat in the courtyard, enjoying the cool air. He lay across my knees and watched me struggle to sew a loose strap on his backpack.

"Dad," Cyrus said, peering up at me. "When I start school, I'm going to study hard. Then I'll serve the country like Mom."

A few days later, because Jennifer chose to walk away and leave him to die, my son never made it to his first day of school.

He was only seven. He had just registered for elementary school. But he never got to wear the backpack I fixed for him. He never got to greet his teachers or classmates. He never got to tell Jennifer that his real dream was to grow up like his mother and defend our country.

I closed my eyes and let the tears fall. They soaked into the backpack in my hands.

When my gaze dropped to the name I had stitched onto it—Cyrus Foster—the last of my control shattered. I broke down and sobbed.

By the time the staff member handed me the urn, I had finally forced myself to quiet down. My hands shook as I took it and walked out.

I placed the urn inside my son's backpack. Then I went to the school. I wanted to finish one last thing for him.

I would collect the textbooks that should have belonged to him.

…

After hearing why I had come, the principal agreed at once and handed me a brand-new set of books.

"Mr. Foster, please take care of yourself."

I thanked her and walked out of the office like a ghost.

On the playground, I ran straight into Jennifer. She stood beside Phillip and patiently explained something to a teacher on his behalf.

When she saw the textbooks in my arms, she froze for a moment. It was as if she had just remembered that our son was supposed to start school here too.

"School doesn't start until the day after tomorrow. Why are you already picking up the books?"

Then her eyes fell on the stack in my hands. They lit up.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the teacher. "Miss Levy, you just said the class is full. If a student who already registered decides not to attend, that would open up a spot, right?"

For a second, I did not understand.

Then it hit me. She wanted our son to give up his place so Phillip's child could take it.

My hands tightened around the books. I jerked my arm free from Jennifer's grip and strode toward the school gate.

Her expression changed at once. She grabbed my wrist, and the textbooks scattered across the ground.

"Jennifer, what exactly are you trying to do?" It was the first time I had ever raised my voice at her.

She froze. Only then did she notice my swollen, red eyes.

"You were crying?" She stared at the wetness on my face, suddenly unsure what to do.

I lowered my head and wiped my tears with a small smile. "No. Something blew into my eyes."

Jennifer frowned. She still sensed that something was wrong. A quiet unease crept into her chest, as if something had happened somewhere beyond her knowledge.

She opened her mouth to ask again, but Phillip had already slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Jenny, leave Andy alone. You promised to help me figure out Tommy's school situation."

The interruption was enough. Jennifer lost interest in questioning me and turned back to continue talking with the teacher.

As Phillip walked past me, he looked back and smiled again. This time the smile carried a hint of smugness.

Strangely, it did not hurt anymore.

…

When I got home, I smoothed every page of the textbooks. Then I carefully wrote my son's name on them. One by one, I placed them inside his backpack.

The bag felt heavy, just like my chest.

I touched the cold urn inside and sniffed hard. "Cyrus, Dad brought your textbooks home. When we get back to our hometown, I will read them to you every day. I will teach you how to study, okay?"

I tried to smile, but tears fell onto my hands, each one cold.

I was about to close the backpack when a deep voice suddenly spoke behind me. "What are you holding?"

I hurriedly wiped my face and forced the conversation elsewhere. "Why are you back? Shouldn't you be with Phillip?"

Jennifer looked at me with suspicion. Then she set the oil-paper package in her hand on the table and asked casually, "Where is our son? I bought his favorite shortbread cookies."

Jennifer was a commander. She often led missions that kept her away for half a month at a time. Whenever she came home, she always brought our son a pack of shortbread cookies.