Parting March
Since her father Dennis fell seriously ill, Christine had been at his bedside nearly every day, managing everything on her own. She had lost a great deal of weight, her already slender frame now looking frighteningly frail.
Dennis watched her, heart aching. “Christine, I’m all right. You don’t have to be here every day. Why not spend more time with Scott at home?”
At the mention of Scott, Christine’s hand—which had been peeling an apple—faltered. The knife pressed into the fleshy part of her thumb, and blood welled up instantly.
She pulled her hand back, hiding it behind her, afraid her father would notice. Forcing a smile, she said, “Scott? Oh, he’s… swamped at work.”
In truth, Scott hadn’t been home for a long time. The house stood empty now, holding only her—lonely, pitiable.
She couldn’t understand why her newlywed husband, who had once doted on her, had turned so cold and distant.
Was it her fault? Was she the problem? Those questions coiled around her heart during countless sleepless nights, squeezing the air from her lungs until she couldn’t breathe.
Finally, one day, she gathered her courage and stopped Scott as he hurried out. “Scott, have I done something wrong?”
She had shattered her pride to ask—only to be met with a furrowed brow. “Stop overthinking things.”
Then he turned and left. He hadn’t returned since.
Her father was gravely ill, and Scott hadn’t visited even once.
To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie.
In front of her father, she kept up a cheerful front. “Dad, don’t worry. Scott treats me very well. I’ll go get you more broth, all right?”
Without waiting for a reply, she stood and hurried out.
Clutching her still-bleeding thumb, she rushed to the bathroom and ran the cold water. The icy stream stung the wound. She squeezed the blood out as if punishing herself, the sharp pain making her gasp.
It was the pain—and the helplessness—that sent the tears flowing uncontrollably.
Christine leaned over the sink, then slowly slid to the floor, trying to steady herself.
A long time later, she gently rubbed her swollen eyes and stood to leave. She had no one to rely on now. In the end, she still had to pick herself up.
As she lifted her head, her eyes met those of someone entering the room.
“Oh, Scott, I just twisted my ankle. Why the wheelchair? You’re making such a fuss,” a woman cooed to the man behind her.
The man gazed at her affectionately. “Better safe. I’ll push you.”
Christine couldn’t believe her eyes. The man was Scott—the one she thought of day and night.
Her mouth opened slightly, but her voice came out hoarse, almost soundless. She wanted to ask who this woman was.
After a long moment, she managed a dry whisper. “Scott…”
Scott seemed to read her thoughts. “An old friend,” he replied flatly.
She just said, “Oh,” not daring to press further.
“Scott, my father is right here,” she tried instead, unable to let it go, her voice tinged with pleading. “Could you… go see him?”
If only to keep up the pretense of a happy couple—to give her father a little peace.
A flicker of displeasure crossed Scott’s face. The woman in the wheelchair paled, her fingers tightening around his wrist as she shook her head slowly.
He patted her shoulder reassuringly, then turned a cold voice toward Christine. “I’m not a doctor. Seeing him won’t make him better.”
With that, he pushed the wheelchair forward, not sparing her another glance.
Christine didn’t understand. How had things come to this?
She bit her lip hard, willing the tears not to fall again. But watching his resolute back retreat, the ache in her heart was undeniable.
He could push a friend with a twisted ankle, but he wouldn’t visit his critically ill father-in-law.
In the end, it meant he didn’t love her—his wife.
With that thought, Christine turned and walked slowly away, her steps carrying her in the opposite direction.
Scott couldn’t help but glance back. All he saw was her back, moving toward the light. She looked so thin, her face drained of color. He’d also noticed the wound on her hand, her swollen eyes.
But then he remembered what Dennis had done. So whatever happened to Christine—she deserved it.
Christine was in no state to go to the hospital. Nor could she bear the thought of returning to that house.
Aimless, she drifted until she found herself outside the cafe. She unlocked the door, stepped behind the counter, and brewed a strong, bitter black coffee. She drank it down in one go—the taste so sharp it made her tongue tremble.
Up the wooden stairs she climbed, to her mother’s old room on the second floor. Curling up on the narrow bed was almost like being held. She lay there, forcing sleep, but her eyes stayed open until dawn.
The door chime rang. The cafe’s first customer had arrived.
She rose to help—and came face-to-face with Betty. Instinctively, Christine tried to retreat, but Betty blocked her path. “I’d like a coffee,” Betty said slowly, deliberately. “Brewed by you.”
“Is that not allowed?”
Her sweet, innocent act made yesterday’s provocation seem a distant dream.
Christine agreed.
She prepared the coffee and served it. Betty took one sip, then gagged and spat it out. “What is this? It’s awful. Make it again.”
Christine stayed silent.
A second cup was served. Betty found fault once more.
“Disgusting. Again.”
This time, Christine didn’t move. She just watched, quiet, as if observing a poor joke.
“Are you enjoying this?”
Betty hated that superior look. “Immensely,” she sneered. “You know, Scott stayed at my place all night yesterday. He just dropped me off here—gone to queue for my favorite matcha cake.”
“I thought cake deserves good coffee.” Betty waved her phone, sending him her location. “He still loves me. Just like he used to.”
The words tugged at a memory—a time when he had loved *her* with that same devotion.
She used to love handmade candied hawthorns, but cavities always made her hold back. Scott, somehow finding out, secretly learned to make them himself. Though sugar-free, they were so sour they made your teeth ache.
Christine’s hand rose unconsciously to her jaw, as if feeling that phantom pain.
“Fine.” Maybe it was the remembered sourness that choked her, leaving only single syllables. She turned back toward the counter.
Furious, Betty snatched up the scalding coffee and hurled it at Christine’s retreating back. Dark stains bloomed across her shirt like ugly flowers, the wet fabric clinging and burning.
For a moment, the pain was so intense she couldn’t stand. She slowly sank to her knees.
Betty seized the moment, collapsing with a cry. “My leg! It hurts so much!”
Scott walked in just then and saw the scene. He rushed to Betty’s side. “What happened?”
“I think my leg’s broken, it hurts so much,” she sobbed against his chest, clinging tightly.
Scott’s gaze shifted to Christine, raw hatred in his eyes. “Christine,” he snarled, “how much more do you have to hurt her? Do you have to drive her to her grave?”
She didn’t understand his words, but she understood his hate.
The pain on her back was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. She was the one wronged, yet he couldn’t see it.
The barista rushed over. “Are you okay, Christine?”
She bit back her tears and shook her head. Something in that gesture seemed to trigger Scott. He scooped Betty into his arms and shot Christine a look of pure scorn. “Stop the act. You’re just like your father—both of you experts at playing the victim. He pretended to be the saint to deceive everyone, and you… you’ve mastered the pitiful, helpless routine.”
He could insult her all he wanted. But he should never have spoken about her father that way.
“Scott,” she said, her eyes red, voice low and trembling. “That was my father.”
