The East Wind Blows, No Turning Back

: Divorce

The day he asked for a divorce, I had just finished wiping the feces off the body of his father, who had been paralyzed and bedridden for three years after a car accident.

He said he'd fallen in love with a girl, a girl who made him feel that flutter of excitement again.

"You're too strong, but she can't live without me."

'So those three years I spent caring for his father, practically on my own, were worth less than a few of someone else's perfectly timed tears.'

Six years of marriage, all my sacrifices, had become one giant joke.

I looked at my haggard reflection in the mirror and suddenly laughed.

I found the long-forgotten box, the one that held the six mementos of our love.

That night, I burned the first memento.

Watching it turn to blackened ash, I felt a part of my heart die along with it.

For old times' sake, I would give him six chances.

Once all six items were burned, I would make a clean break with these ridiculous six years and never look back.

...

On our sixth wedding anniversary, he gave me a bouquet of white roses and then said, "Celia Sterling, let's get a divorce."

I had just lit the candles, not yet having had the chance to cut the cake, when a waiter approached with red wine. He quietly instructed the waiter to take the candles and cake away.

I froze for a moment. "What kind of joke is this?"

But he spoke slowly and deliberately, "I've thought it through. Things between us changed a long time ago."

I didn't say anything.

I picked up my phone and looked at the lock screen—a photo of us from a trip we took six years ago.

In the photo, he was still the man who held an umbrella over me to shield me from the rain, his smile warm.

For our sixth anniversary, we were supposed to get new matching rings and, as was our tradition, give each other a memento.

But this time, his gift to me was a divorce.

I didn't cry. Instead, when I got home, I pulled our first-year anniversary memento from the cabinet.

A pair of matching keychains, engraved with the words "You're my one and only."

We'd bought them in Riverbend. He'd told me on the street back then, "Celia, you're my one and only."

I stared at it in silence for a long time before finally lighting it on fire.

As the flames devoured the keychain, I counted silently in my head.

'I have five mementos left. The day they're all burned to ash will be the day I leave Ethan Vaughn for good.'

I had always known his love for me had been fading over these past six years.

But I never thought he would choose today of all days, refusing to spare me even a shred of warmth.

The next morning, Ethan Vaughn left early and came home late as usual. I took care of Mr. Vaughn, helping him wash up and eat.

Mr. Vaughn had been paralyzed for three years after the car accident. I had quit my job at the Architectural Firm to be his full-time caregiver—helping him with his daily life, physical therapy, and medication.

Years ago, when Mr. Sterling was still in charge, Ethan Vaughn was nothing more than a design assistant who ran errands at his company.

I was the one who desperately pleaded with Mr. Sterling, saying, "Ethan Vaughn is destined for greatness."

Mr. Sterling trusted me and insisted on promoting him to the Associate Director position that had just opened up.

Three years passed. The company landscape shifted, Mr. Sterling fell ill, and the company fell into Ethan Vaughn's hands.

And me? I went from being the president's daughter to a caregiver for a paralyzed old man.

I never once complained.

But now?

Not only did he not want me anymore, he even announced his new relationship on his social media.

The photo showed a woman I'd never seen before, smiling sweetly and innocently, wearing a volunteer vest from The Helping Hands Foundation.

The caption read: "Thank you for the care you've shown my father. I will spend the rest of my life repaying you."

My hand trembled, and my phone fell to the floor.

'The man I've cared for for three years… he's using that as an emotional bargaining chip to impress someone else?'

That evening, I continued my routine: massaging Mr. Vaughn, applying his medication, and feeding him.

He seemed to notice my mood and asked hesitantly, "Celia… are you upset today?"

I paused, then said softly, "It's nothing. I'm just tired."

"Just bear with it a little longer. Ethan, he…" He trailed off, hesitant to continue.

My gaze sharpened. I cut in with a smile, "He lost feelings for me a long time ago. Dad, don't try to talk me out of it."

He was silent for a long time, then suddenly asked, "If you really leave, will you still take care of me?"

I didn't answer.

His eyes suddenly reddened. "Celia, don't blame him. He's not a bad person… he's just too greedy."

I curved the corners of my lips into a slight smile and turned his wheelchair toward the balcony.

"Dad, the evening air is cool. I'll wheel you outside for some fresh air."

That night, I set fire to the second memento.

It was a wooden watch box that Ethan Vaughn had made by hand for our second anniversary, engraved with the words, "May I be by your side through all the gentle moments of your life."

I stood on the balcony, watching as the fire consumed it bit by bit.

Four items left.

I looked up at the night sky, my heart perfectly still.

He gave me six years of companionship.

So I'll give him four more chances.

When these mementos have all been burned, I will leave and never look back.