Years later, when I had become a stylish older woman myself, I finally understood that these video diary-like recordings are what people now call vlogs.

Julieta’s vlog was titled “The Runaway Princess Returns Home,” stylishly embellished with pink neon subtitles. Derek was holding Mathew when he went to pick her up, but she refused to get in the car until he said, “Princess, please get in the car.”

She asked Mathew, who was happily enjoying a chocolate waffle cone, if she could have a taste. After swallowing a whole scoop, the child began to cry, and she playfully ran after him, trying to make it up to him. She even added a clip of herself directing Mathew in a video. In his sweet, childlike voice, he counted, “Three, two, one,” capturing the moment Julieta rested her head on Derek’s shoulder, smiling with the innocence of a young girl.

The comments section was filled with praise:

“What a fabulously youthful grandma!”

“This is the childhood I dream about—both grandpa and grandma are so delightful!”

“Look how grandpa just keeps grinning at grandma in the background. The kid fell while running, and he didn’t even notice, haha. Definitely, his wife is his number one, the grandchild must be adopted.”

Everyone assumed it was a day out with grandparents and their grandchild. The video replayed over and over, each loop piercing my heart.

So this is the Disneyland the child was so excited to visit.

Turns out my hearing isn’t as bad as I thought.

With trembling hands, I clicked on the profile picture, unveiling a life completely different from my own. In every single one of these memories, Derek Lee was there without exception. There were shots of him at book signings for his memoir, dining at trendy bistros, and even hiking with my son and daughter-in-law. The timeline stretched back five years.

What was I doing back then? I collapsed onto the floor, struggling to remember. Maybe I was changing diapers for my newborn grandson or taking care of my bedridden mother-in-law.

After watching the videos, Derek returned. He paused, staring at me silently for a long moment, then walked over and snatched the phone away. I wanted to yell at him—this shameless man, flitting from one thing to another even at his age. But the words caught in my throat, and instead, I managed to choke out a single question: "What kind of relationship do you have with my sister?"

Derek didn't explain, didn't argue. With an air of calm detachment, he simply stated, "Our feelings emerged naturally but were always within boundaries. We have common interests; she's a kindred spirit in my later years. Kindred spirits are hard to find. We only travel together and have never crossed any lines. I've never left my family, so what's making you so upset?"

He stood there with his hands behind his back, as if to suggest how could a simple woman like me possibly understand the virtues of a gentleman like him. I thought I had come to terms with everything by now. But for the past five years, was it really me who didn't want to share his interests?

I said I wanted to see this memoir as his crowning achievement. He insisted it was his professional domain and didn't want family interference. I had heard about that bistro from our daughter, but he claimed that home cooking was healthier and advised against eating out. When the family planned a hiking trip, who was left to take care of the baby at home?

The only one truly abandoned was me. The only one left in the dark by everyone was me. Clinging to the sofa, I struggled to my feet, refusing to let it go, and asked, "Five years, and you kept this from me for five whole years?"

His gaze flickered, casting a pitiful look before turning away. My memories crumbled, piecing together details and fragments, revealing a truth I had never dared to imagine. It hadn't just been five years.

Derek Lee was sent to the countryside as part of a government program for urban youth.

At sixteen, I found myself in the fields, working the land with a hoe. The sun blazed overhead, and as I straightened up to wipe the sweat from my brow, I first noticed Derek Lee, arriving with the low hum of a tractor. His hair was slightly long, and he wore a faded cotton shirt that seemed out of place in the countryside's earthy surroundings. Just one glance, and I remembered him.

Having never done farm work before, his thin shoulders could hardly carry a bucket of water without spilling half of it. The crush of a young girl is both bashful and intense. Eagerly, I took it upon myself to carry water for the group of city youths, making seven or eight trips a day, even though the farm work was already exhausting me.

Our family had only two daughters. My sister, Julieta, loved studying. She performed with the county arts troupe, and I had to save half of our food rations for her. Our father, Gabriel, was bedridden, so I worked tirelessly, doing the labor of a grown man, yet earning only half the wages. But I didn’t mind the exhaustion. Whenever I passed Derek as he read a Robert Frost translation, if he looked up from his book to softly say, "thank you," I felt content.

We were merely acquaintances, acknowledging each other with a nod, until he met Julieta.

Julieta’s thick, black braid was tied with a red ribbon, and when she ran through the fields chasing butterflies, every young man around couldn’t help but take a second look. She ran over and hugged me, "Sis, do you still have that fabric you got last time? I’d like to make another pair of pants."

Derek stood at the edge of the field, watching us with an open gaze. I blushed with embarrassment, and in my fluster, I stepped on the seedlings beneath me.

After that, he often started conversations with me:

"That girl last time, is she your sister? Your eyes are quite similar."

"Could you ask your sister to get me a bar of soap from the city?"

"Here, you can borrow this poetry collection. Both you and your sister might enjoy it."

To my eighteen-year-old self, these inquiries about Julieta seemed like the sparks of young love. How naïve I was. Now, at the end of life’s journey, I understand that on that day in the fields, the person he was truly looking at wasn’t me. This truth was hidden not for five years, but for fifty-five.