The day I miscarried and hemorrhaged, my parents drove through a downpour to reach the hospital. They never made it. Their car was hit on the way.

I lay on the operating table and signed their surgical consent forms with hands still slick with my own blood.

I couldn't save the baby. I couldn't save my parents either.

The man I'd called seventy-six times without an answer had posted a celebration on Instagram.

【Congrats to our little Sweetie! One long night, and she's finally a mama.】

Too weak to do anything else, I tapped "like." He messaged me immediately.

Two words: “Delete that.”

I sent him my hospital location pin.

“Come to the hospital. I need to tell you something in person.”

“I have something important to deal with. I can't come! Ask your parents to go with you to the checkup. It's not like they have anything better to do.”

“Your important thing is delivering puppies for her dog?”

“Since when did being pregnant turn you into a jealous shrew? You're seriously jealous of a dog?”

I didn't have the strength to argue. If he wouldn't come, he could talk to my lawyer.

……

By the time I'd finished arranging my parents' funerals, it was the following evening.

I dragged myself to the front door and pushed it open.

The apartment I'd carefully tidied was destroyed. Everything pulled out, thrown around, left where it landed.

Wilfred Farley was hunched over, rummaging through something, tossing whatever he picked up onto the floor without a second glance.

The carelessness of someone who'd always had another person to clean up after him.

He didn't look up when the door opened. His voice carried a note of irritation.

“It's the weekend—where have you been all day? I had to order in for lunch.”

I stared at him. So he hadn't come home last night either.

Two years of this.

When Carrie Butler's apartment light broke, he could roll out of bed at two in the morning to fix it for her.

But he'd leave our own front door unlocked behind him, letting some drunk stumble in, leaving me with nightmares that lasted a solid month.

When Carrie's dog went into labor, he could refuse to come to my prenatal checkup.

But he'd take a full week off to be by her side, doing a job that should have been a vet's.

When I didn't respond, Wilfred finally looked at me. Surprise flickered across his face.

“You're white as a sheet. Is the baby giving you trouble again?”

I stepped back, away from the hand he was reaching toward my stomach. My voice was flat.

“I called you seventy-six times yesterday. Why didn't you pick up?”

His hand hung in the air. He frowned.

“Freya Gibson, are you interrogating me right now?”

“Carrie and I are childhood friends. And that dog isn't just some pet in her shop. She raised it since it was a puppy. They have a bond.”

“The dog was in labor. Carrie was worried sick. I had to be there. That's life or death. You think I had time to answer your pointless calls?”

“It was just a checkup. Plenty of pregnant women go alone. And you've got your parents. They're not exactly busy. What difference does it make if I'm not there?”

I looked at him standing there, so sure of himself.

I wanted to ask: And what about my parents?

The crash had been brutal. My father had no vital signs by the time the ambulance reached the hospital.

My mother made it into surgery, but her injuries were severe and complex.

Wilfred's colleague told me that only he, operating himself, might have given her a chance.

He said he'd had no time to answer my calls. But the second I liked that Instagram post, he'd found time to order me to take it back.

Afraid Carrie might read something into it.

“Are you really just childhood friends?”

“Because I saw you kiss her, Wilfred.”

In the same restaurant where he'd proposed to me. At the exact same table.

I'd been so shaken I didn't see the motorcycle speeding toward me.

The rider braked in time. But the life inside me, barely three months along, was already gone.

Panic flickered through Wilfred Farley's eyes, those eyes that were always so controlled.

“Carrie was so worried about the puppy that I took her out to clear her head. She had a few too many drinks and……”

His tone softened a fraction:

“Anyway, forget about that. I'll be there for the next prenatal appointment, I promise.”

Again. The same routine.

A flimsy excuse to wave me off, then something sweet to smooth it over, as if none of it ever happened.

But Wilfred, you will never need to come to another appointment with me.

“Don't bother. Let's get a divorce.”

He froze for a second, then his face twisted with anger.

“Freya, is this some reporter thing? Blowing everything out of proportion? I told you it was an accident. Do you really have to make a federal case out of it?”

“And let's be honest here. You're pushing thirty, you're pregnant, and right now you're nothing but a logistics grunt at the station. Who else is going to want you besides me?”

“I break my back at that hospital every single day for this family, and I don't come home to deal with you picking fights for no reason!”

He stormed toward the door.

Passing the entryway, his gaze snagged on the corner of a document poking out of my bag.

The words were perfectly legible. Death certificate.

Wilfred turned back, confused.

“Who died?”

He reached for the paper, about to pull it out and read it.

But his phone rang. Carrie's voice came through, small and choked with tears.

“Wil, one of the puppies might be choking on milk. There are customers in the shop and I just can't handle everything at once.”

“It's not going to die, is it? I'm so scared……”

Wilfred's face went taut with worry.

“Don't cry. I'm on my way.”

And just like that, he left. Didn't look back once.

Didn't even lock his study, the room he never liked me setting foot in.

Something pulled me inside. Then something under the desk cut right through me.

That year, I'd been the station's most promising new reporter. I'd been assigned to interview the retiring hospital director.

But the old man was proud and stubborn. He turned me away at the door.

Days of back-to-back shifts caught up with me, and my blood sugar crashed. I passed out in the garden.

It was Wilfred who found me, who helped me up. He told me the old director was set in his ways and wouldn't change his mind.

I'd hung my head, defeated. Then the next second, something sweet was being pushed past my lips. A tangerine candy.

Wilfred gave me a playful wink.

“But I do admire people who take their work seriously. So how about this: interview me instead.”

I found out later that he was the youngest medical professor in the city.

Countless people had tried and failed to land an interview with the brilliant young prodigy. He'd made an exception only for me.

That was how Wilfred and I began.

Later, we both grew busier and busier. One evening he looked at me with difficulty in his eyes.

“Freya, I know becoming a top journalist is your dream.”

“But the older folks at home need someone looking after them. Could you step back from work? I promise I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

And I knew just as well that becoming the finest doctor he could be was his dream.

So I gave in.

I didn't quit. I transferred to the logistics department instead, somewhere lighter, because at least that way I could stay close to the work I loved.

On so many sleepless nights, I'd sit under the lamp and run my thumb over my press credential.

Every time Wilfred caught me doing it, guilt would flood his face, and he'd promise me again that he'd be good to me.

Now that same credential, the one I'd treasured more than almost anything, was shoved under the corner of his desk to keep it from wobbling.

I opened his safe with Carrie's birthday.

On top was a thick manila envelope.

Inside, photographs. All kinds.

The two of them embracing. Kissing. Walking hand in hand along a beach.

Beneath the photos, receipts. An apartment he'd bought Carrie. The startup capital for her shop. Her renovations.

The business lost money every single month, and still he covered the gap.

The handwriting on the folder was Wilfred's.

“I will always clear the path for your dreams.”

I stared at that line for a long, long time.

Five years flashed through my mind. Caring for his parents. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. Keeping his house running.

I thought about the envy that cut through me every time I saw my old colleagues burning with passion, pulling late nights to prep their interview scripts.

I laughed out loud.

So he did know how to protect someone's dreams.

I photographed everything, put it all back, and finally made my decision.

“Hey, Selma—I heard the station's looking for someone to go to Central Asia as a war correspondent. Nobody's signed up yet.”

“If you'll have me, I want to go.”

A beat of silence. Then her voice lit up.

“Yes! I always thought it was a waste when you transferred to logistics. This is a rare opportunity. It could be dangerous, but when you come back, your résumé will be a different story entirely.”

“Get yourself ready. You leave in a few days.”

I hung up and started packing.

There was nothing left in this house I cared about.

Except the sweater. The last one my mother ever knitted for me. I was taking that.

She'd knitted me plenty of clothes when I was little. As I grew up, she got older. Her eyes weren't what they used to be.

I didn't want her straining herself, so I told her to stop.

Then I got pregnant, and suddenly I couldn't stand the cold.

She went and knitted me one anyway, in secret. Her eyes were bloodshot from the work, but she just waved me off.

“Homemade is warmer. I picked out the best yarn myself.”

“You fuss over the baby in your belly, and I fuss over mine.”

It hurt and it warmed me at the same time. I never could bring myself to wear it.

But now the sweater was gone.

I remembered the scene when I'd come home. I was about to call Wilfred and ask.

Then I saw Carrie's new Instagram post.

“Hehe, I just said the babies were cold since they were just born, and a certain someone showed up with a sweater~”

“Thanking Daddy on behalf of the babies~ And of course, this Mommy's alteration skills aren't too shabby either.”

So that's where Wilfred had gone. To celebrate a birthday party for her puppies.

In the photo, their heads were pressed together, bodies close.

Each of them cradling three puppies.

And I recognized it instantly.

The little ‘dog outfits’ on those puppies had been cut from my mother's sweater.

When I pushed open the glass door of the pet shop, Wilfred and Carrie were sharing a spoon over a slice of cake.

Wilfred was a severe germaphobe.

At home, his dishes had to be sterilized and stored separately. He never shared utensils at meals.

Once, after I'd spent an entire day cleaning the house, I was so parched I grabbed his cup and took a sip of water.

He didn't say anything at the time. That night, the cup was in the trash.

He'd explained it afterward. Said it was a professional habit from the hospital.

Turns out the habit was selective.

Carrie spotted me and arched a brow, her smile dripping with fake sweetness.

“Oh, Freya! You're here? Wilfred and I have been like this since we were kids, we never really had boundaries. Don't mind it, okay?”

“Wilfred, what did I tell you? She'd never actually go through with the divorce.”

“I mean, a woman whose career tanked, who can only survive off her husband's charity? Without you, how's she going to raise a kid and support her parents? And look, she tracked you all the way here. Clingy much.”

“Sigh. Compared to that, I guess my skin's just too thin. Nothing for me to do but keep being an independent girl boss~”

Wilfred pinched her nose, indulgent and fond.

“Always the clever one, aren't you? Been a little troublemaker since we were kids.”

Then he turned to me, wearing the expression of a man forgiving a child who didn't know better.