On the fourth day after our son died, I decided to end my military marriage.

Before that, I spent three days taking care of what remained of him.

On the first day, I tricked my wife into signing the cremation papers.

On the second day, I went to my son's school and collected the textbooks he never had the chance to use.

On the third day, I prepared a table full of his favorite dishes and begged my wife to come home so we could celebrate his birthday one last time.

She agreed. Then she turned around, claimed she had a mission, and spent the entire night setting off fireworks with her childhood sweetheart.

That night, I sat beside my son's memorial photo and ate alone.

The next day, she came home looking guilty and handed me a brand new backpack. She said it was a gift for our son to use at school.

She did not know that our child would never live to see his first day of school.

On the fourth day after my son died, I ran into Jennifer Cassell in a hospital corridor.

One hand steadied Phillip Lennox. The other held Phillip's son. The three of them looked exactly like a happy family. Except I was her husband.

The smile vanished from Jennifer's face the moment she saw me. "What are you doing here? Are you here to give Phil trouble again?"

She looked at me as if I were something she needed to guard against. Her eyes felt colder than my son's body.

Phillip slipped an arm around her with effortless familiarity. Then he looked at me with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, Andrew. Jenny just worries too much about me, so she came off a little harsh."

As he spoke, he nudged his son and motioned for him to greet me.

The boy glanced at me and said, "Hello, Mister."

Then he threw himself into Jennifer's arms and called out in a sweet voice, "Jenny."

One was "Mister," The other was "Jenny." The difference could not have been clearer.

In the past, this would have turned my stomach on the spot. Now I only felt bone-deep exhaustion.

I drew a slow breath and prepared to tell her that our son was dead.

Jennifer spoke first. "If you don't need anything, Phil and I are leaving. Tommy isn't feeling well. I need to take him to see a doctor."

My eyes shifted. Instinct made me step aside.

Phillip chuckled. "Jenny, don't work yourself up. Tommy just ate too much. He's fine."

"That's just how you are. You care too much."

Then he turned to me and added, generous as ever, "Andrew, if you need to talk to Jenny, go ahead. I can take Tommy to the doctor myself."

It was ridiculous. I was the man who had married Jennifer, yet I needed another man to grant me the chance to speak to my own wife.

What was even more ridiculous was that she still refused to give me even that much.

The moment Phillip finished speaking, she frowned. "Phil, don't say that. How can we not take a child's illness seriously?"

Yeah. How could we not?

I tightened my grip on the death certificate in my hand. Pain stabbed straight through my chest.

Four days earlier…

Our son's asthma flared, and he was on the verge of death.

I grabbed Jennifer just as she was heading out and begged her to take him to the hospital.

She only laughed coldly and shook off my hand. "Andrew, do you think I'm stupid? His asthma didn't start today. Give him some medicine and he'll be fine. Phil is waiting for me to take Tommy to the park. Stop bothering me."

Then she got into the car and drove away without a backward glance.

I was the only one left behind.

I ran through the entire compound in tears, begging anyone with a car to help me get my child to the hospital.

I was too late. The boy I had raised with everything I had for seven years left me forever, just before he was supposed to start school.

…

That day, I knelt in front of the doctors until my forehead went numb. I cried until there was nothing left in me.

None of it could buy me one more moment. None of it could make my son open his eyes and call me Dad again.

And his own mother? She had been at the park with her childhood sweetheart's son.

It might have been funny if it had not hollowed me out.

By the time I came back to myself, Jennifer was already gone. She walked away holding Phillip's son and left me no chance to speak.

Only Phillip looked back as he passed me. He gave me a small, apologetic smile. That expression and that small gesture looked almost like pity.

Over the last four days, I had seen far too much of that.

I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and decided to cremate my son without telling her.

Jennifer had already cast this family aside. I had no reason to keep dragging things out with her.

After the cremation, I would take my son back to my hometown. Before that, I had three days to deal with everything he left behind.

Today was the first.

…

When I left the hospital, I carried two documents with me. One was my son's death certificate. The other was the cremation application.

I could not let my child remain alone in a place far from home. I would take him back with me. Back to the home that had once existed before Jennifer hollowed it out.

Jennifer came home at 7:00 p.m. that day. She wore a sharp military-green uniform and carried a teal cloth bag.

The moment she saw me, she set the bag down as if it belonged there and said, "Wash the clothes in that bag tomorrow. Phil is raising a kid on his own. It's hard for him. Help him out a little."

I almost laughed. Why was it my job to ease her childhood sweetheart's burden just because she felt sorry for him?

I was about to refuse when she spoke again. "Where is our son? Isn't he home?"

She looked around the house, puzzled. My chest tightened. I was still searching for an excuse when she began issuing orders again. "If he's not here, pack a few of his clothes. I'll take them to Phil's place. They just got back from Androva. They didn't bring enough. Tommy can wear our son's things for now."

When I did not move, she walked straight into my son's room, opened the wardrobe, and began pulling out the neatly folded clothes.

She frowned as she sorted through them. "This one isn't new enough. This one has a patch. This one is ugly."

One by one, every piece of clothing she had never bothered to notice before suddenly had a flaw. None of them were good enough for Phillip's son.

I turned away quickly and wiped the tears from the corner of my eye. When I looked back, she had already thrown the clothes across the floor.

"What are you doing? Don't touch my son's things!" The scream tore out of me before I could stop it. I rushed forward and shoved her away.

Jennifer stumbled back a step. Her face darkened. "Have you lost your mind, Andrew? They're just clothes. It's not like they're anything special. Once you wash Phil's clothes, I'll give these back to our son. Isn't that enough?"

She pushed past me and started toward the door.

She did not notice the clothes under her boots. One dirty footprint after another stamped across them. Each step felt like it landed on my heart. I barely had time to feel angry.

"Wait."

Jennifer turned back, impatience written all over her face. "Are you done yet?"

My hand hung at my side as my fingers slowly curled into a fist. Then I pulled the papers I had prepared from the drawer. "In a few days, I'm taking our son back to my hometown for a visit. Sign this dependent travel authorization."

She looked at me with suspicion. "Isn't he about to start school? Why is he suddenly going back home?"

I picked at my fingers to keep them from shaking and seized the first excuse that came to mind. "A relative passed away. I'm taking him back to pay respects."

Jennifer froze for a moment. Then she signed the paper without even reading it. "Fine. Stay a few extra days if you want. There's no need to hurry back."

I lowered my eyes so she would not see how red they were. "Okay."

Of course I would stay a few extra days. Better yet, I would never come back. That way, she could pursue her true love without a single thing holding her back.

I blinked hard, forced the tears down, and walked Jennifer to the door.

Just before she left, she seemed to remember something. She stopped, reached into her pocket, and held out two milk candies.

I froze. Then I took them from her hand. They were still warm from her body heat.

For one weak, foolish second, warmth stirred in my chest. I almost told her that our son was dead.

Then she said, "I bought them for Tommy, but he doesn't like them, so I threw the rest away at the hospital. I only had these two left in my pocket. Give them to Cyrus. No point wasting them."

In an instant, that faint warmth turned colder than before.

I did not look at her again as I shut the courtyard gate in her face.

…

On the second day, I went to the crematorium alone and saw my son off on his final journey.

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.