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.

Every time Cyrus smelled shortbread cookies, he would run to the door with a wide grin to greet her.

But Jennifer never knew the truth. My son had asthma. He did not like dry, crumbly shortbread cookies at all. What he loved was seeing Jennifer come home safe.

A hollow ache spread through my chest, yet I forced a faint smile. "Thanks."

Jennifer let out a quiet breath of relief. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. "Andy, I want to talk to you about something."

My chest tightened. "What is it?"

She sat beside me and leaned into my arms.

"I know you want our son to go to school. I want that too, so I talked it over with Phil." Her voice remained calm, as if she had already settled everything. "Tommy can take our son's spot at school for now. After class, he can come to our place and teach our son what he learned that day. What do you think?"

I gave no answer. The last bit of warmth in my chest faded.

Jennifer seemed to sense that something was wrong. She avoided my eyes and continued, "I don't have a choice. Phil just went through a divorce. He belongs to a vulnerable group. He needs help."

A vulnerable group, huh? What about my son? He was only seven. Was he not vulnerable too? Yet she abandoned him without hesitation. All for Phillip.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, only coldness remained.

"He can take the spot," I said. "But you have to promise me one thing."

Jennifer nodded at once. "What is it?"

"Come home tomorrow night and celebrate our son's birthday."

She nodded without hesitation. "Mission accepted."

…

On the third day, I cooked a table full of my son's favorite dishes. I placed his memorial photo on a chair and waited quietly for Jennifer to come home.

The elders always said that on the seventh day after death, a soul returned to the world one last time to see the family again. I hoped that when my son came back, he would see both of us celebrating his final birthday.

The clock ticked again and again. Eight o'clock passed, yet Jennifer had not come home.

I could not wait any longer. I went to look for Jennifer.

…

The moment I stepped outside our courtyard, fireworks burst along the roadside.

It was deep winter, and the sharp crack of fireworks and firecrackers echoed through the dark street.

I began to walk around them.

Then Phillip's voice drifted over. "Jenny, be careful. Don't let Tommy get burned."

He stood under a tree. His voice sounded gentle. Jennifer answered with a soft hum. She struck a match and lit the firework in the boy's hand.

I heard her say, "Tommy, congratulations. Tomorrow you officially start school!"

Phillip covered his ears and shouted, "Tommy, happy first day of school!"

I stood in the shadows and watched them. Each laugh tore through my chest.

Yes, school started tomorrow. But my child would never see that day.

"Jennifer, do you know? It's been seven days since our son died. You promised to celebrate his birthday. Why are you celebrating another man's child instead? Do you still remember our Cyrus? Tomorrow should have been his first day of school too," I muttered.

I did not disturb them. I turned around and walked home in silence.

…

The pasta on the table had clumped together into a soggy mess.

I took a bite. Then I looked at my son's photo and forced a smile.

My vision blurred with tears. "So salty. Saltier than the food Dad ate at the hospital that day. Cyrus, it's your birthday today. Happy birthday. Dad misses you."

…

That night, Jennifer set off fireworks with Phillip's son until dawn. I stayed beside my son's photo and finished the entire plate of pasta.

When morning came, I went to my room and began to pack.

At that moment, Jennifer returned home. "Cyrus, Mom is back! There was a last-minute mission yesterday. Mom didn't get the chance to tell you. I missed your birthday. But Mom bought you a birthday present. A new backpack. Come try—"

Her words stopped mid-sentence.

Jennifer's gaze locked onto the memorial photo on the chair.