"Deborah, are you positive you want to cancel the entire rehab program, the medication, and the specialist consultations?" The nurse's voice on the line carried a note of disbelief. It's not every day she encounters someone who's perfectly healthy but whose family is willing to forgo refunds for specialist appointments.

"Yes, please cancel everything," I confirmed.

"Alright, the refund amount totals eight thousand three hundred and thirty-two dollars and will be returned to your account."

I nodded in acknowledgment, even though she couldn't see me. After the call ended, I glanced again at the photo album and then at the loosened drawer in the bedside table. My bitter laugh came out unsteady. If it wasn’t for that loose piece of wood, I might never have uncovered all of this.

The photos were preserved with care, each one dated precisely, with locations and heartfelt messages written on the back. I counted ninety in total. From the snowy peaks of the Alps to the sunny beaches of Florida, from vast plains to secluded ancient buildings. Four seasons, all across the country. Different backdrops, yet the same trio posing time and again.

And there it was, scattered throughout, Emmitt's notes on the back of the photos with his proposals: "Mina, will you marry me?"

I traced the handwriting with my fingers, vividly imagining how Emmitt might have acted. Beautiful scenery, family by his side, a young man sincerely writing down his passionate love, eager to share it with the one he hoped to win over. It was truly romantic.

But sadly, I wasn’t the girl in those photos.

I exhaled slowly, my mind retreating swiftly into the past. Emmitt and I officially started dating in our freshman year. That day, Emmitt made a grand promise to travel across the breathtaking landscapes of the nation within twenty years. I always thought he had forgotten about it, as he never took me on any trips, not even during our college years.

Only now did I realize those words were never meant for me. Mina, Mina Nguyen. The girl in the photos must be the childhood friend mentioned by his friends.

Eight years ago, when I passed up a chance to work at a multinational company, my friend's expression was complicated. She said, "Ruby, you're investing in a lost cause. If Emmitt truly cared, he would have figured out a way to care for his mother who's partially paralyzed, instead of just introducing you to her and expecting you to help."

I didn’t pay attention to her words back then, thinking, how could such a kind old lady and such a reliable young man be a lost cause? Yet her words turned out to be prophetic.

I lived like a fool for fifteen years.

My breaths were shallow, my chest felt as if a fiery sponge was lodged inside, suffocating and burning me from within. I couldn't decide if I was more upset with Emmitt's deception or my own gullibility.

Once I calmed down, I returned the album to its place. The first thing I did was cancel the auto-renewal for the utilities of this house. Then I booked a flight for two days later.

Over the years, to better support Nancy’s rehab expenses, I took up overseas translation work and tutored local kids in foreign languages. With the sudden cancellation of the lessons, I needed to explain things face-to-face with the parents.

Once everything was settled, I opened my chat with Emmitt, ready to break up with him. But I noticed he had sent me a message two hours ago.

"South Terminal, Gate 24, at eleven twenty-four."

Of course, today was the day they returned, the day that album would gain its ninety-first photo.

"Deborah, are you sure you want a full refund for the therapy sessions, medication, and specialist consultations?" The nurse on the other end sounded skeptical. It wasn’t often she encountered someone willing to forgo the money for expert medical attention.

"Yes, return it all," I replied firmly.

"Alright, the total refund amount is $8,432, and it will be deposited back into your account."

I acknowledged her response and hung up. I glanced at the photo album and then at the loose bedside cabinet, feeling a tremor in my bitter chuckle. If that wooden panel hadn’t become unhinged, I might never have discovered all this.

The photos were meticulously preserved, with precise dates, locations, and heartfelt messages written on the back of each one. I counted them—ninety in total. From the snow-covered Alps to the shimmering shores of the Mediterranean, vast fields to secluded, ancient manor houses. All four seasons, spanning across the country.

A diverse array of backgrounds, yet the same trio in every shot. And... scrawled on the back of the photos were Emmitt’s repeated proposals.

"Mina, will you marry me?"

I rubbed my fingers over the handwriting, picturing Emmitt at that moment. Ideal scenery, loved ones nearby, a young man fervently inscribing his passionate feelings, nervously holding it up for the one he adored. It was romantic, indeed.

But I wasn't the girl in those pictures. I let out a slow breath, and my memories swiftly rewound. Emmitt and I officially got together during freshman year. That day, he made a grand promise to explore every beautiful corner of the United States within twenty years. I always thought he’d forgotten, as he never took me on any trips, not even during our college days. Only now do I understand—his declaration was never meant for me.

Mina Nguyen—the girl in those photos must have been his so-called childhood sweetheart.

Eight years ago, when I gave up a promising opportunity at a multinational company, my friends looked at me with mixed expressions. One of them said, "Ruby, you're diving into a chasm. If Emmitt truly cared, he’d find a way to look after his paralyzed mother himself, instead of making you meet his mute, paralyzed mom."

Back then, I didn’t listen. How could such a kindly old lady and such a composed young man be part of that chasm? Yet, ironically, those words became prophecy.

I lived like a fool for fifteen years.

I breathed in sporadic intervals, feeling as if a burning sponge had lodged in my chest, blocking my airways and searing my organs with pain. Whether I was angry at Emmitt's deceit or at my own naiveté, I couldn’t tell.

Once my emotions were somewhat calm, I put the photo album back in its place. I immediately shut off the automatic utilities payment for this house and booked myself a flight for two days later.

To better support Nancy Vasquez’s recovery expenses over the years, I took on overseas translation assignments and helped local kids with language tutoring. With the sudden halt in tutoring, I felt I should personally explain the situation to the parents.

After completing these tasks, I opened the chat with Emmitt, ready to break up with him. That's when I saw he had sent me a message two hours prior.

"South Terminal, Gate 24, 11:24."

So, today was their return date—the day that photo album would gain its ninety-first picture. I glanced at the clock; it was already 11:30.

Emmitt sent a voice message, asking me where I was.

I listened to it three times, ultimately unable to ignore the thought of leaving him and an elderly lady stranded in the outskirts. Cursing myself for being spineless, I hastily changed and headed out.

When I arrived at the airport, I saw Emmitt with his mother Nancy and Mina Nguyen. Emmitt’s jacket was draped over Mina, as he leaned in, seemingly asking if she was cold. I didn’t get out of the car, but instead honked twice.

Emmitt noticed me and tapped on the car window, signaling me to get out and help move Nancy. He gently opened the car door for Mina, letting her slide inside.

Of course, no taxi around the airport would want to pick up a paralyzed old woman, or deal with an unwieldy non-foldable wheelchair.

I glimpsed Mina through the rearview mirror. Perhaps sensing my gaze, she glanced in my direction, bashfully removed Emmitt’s jacket, revealing the diamond ring on her finger.

"Hey Ruby, I grew up across the street from Emmitt’s place, so when we ran into each other this time, his mom invited me to join them on their trip back home. I hope you don’t misunderstand."

Before, I might have pointed something out to her, whether I liked her demeanor or not. As women, we can discern between innocent interactions and flirtatious ones. But now I merely smiled indifferently.

Emmitt came over with Nancy, opened the passenger door, and settled her inside. Then he glared at me still sitting in the driver’s seat and sneered, "Did your leg break?"

I didn’t speak, merely popped open the trunk.

Emmitt frowned, dissatisfied, reaching over the passenger seat to tug at me. Mina quickly tried to get out and insisted she’d handle it.

"Don't come down! This thing is so heavy. If you strain your muscles without knowing how to lift it properly, what then?"

Suddenly, it felt like something exploded in my ear. Bitterness filled my chest, and it seemed my blood had come to a halt.

So, he could care about someone after all. So, he knew that thing was heavy.

Years ago, he deemed foldable wheelchairs unsafe and electric ones too costly, insisting on buying a solid one. Every time I navigated stairs, I'd twist my arm painfully.

I had countless times emphasized switching to a lighter model, only to be met with his righteous refusal, citing his mom’s safety. Even when I paid for an electric wheelchair myself, he'd fly into a rage and chuck it out.

Eight years, my arms were marked with the scars of the effort.

I had been angry, felt wronged, but eventually compromised, even deceived myself. He just didn’t understand; he simply thought I could handle it...

But now, I can no longer lie to myself.