Those words–gentle and full of warmth–pierced me like bullets. It wasn’t just the words; it was how he said them. The tenderness in his voice was a tone I had never heard directed at me, not once in all our years together.
I felt the sharp sting of tears, though I no longer had a body to shed them. When I was pregnant, I had craved pineapple so badly that I had begged him to let me eat it. He had refused, disgusted by the smell.
Once, unable to bear it, I had bought one myself. He had smelled it on me the moment I walked through the door, and his face had turned to stone. That night, he slept in the guest
room. For over half a month, he barely returned home.
And now, here he was, enduring the scent he loathed for a woman he loved.
“You’ve got a lucky wife,” the shopkeeper said with a chuckle.
Lucky. The irony of that word struck me so hard I almost laughed. His “lucky” wife had died long ago, and here I was, watching him lavish his care on another.
I trailed behind as he returned to the hospital, carrying the pineapple. When he stepped into the ward, I couldn’t bring myself to follow. I turned away, drifting toward the window instead. I didn’t want to see their smiles, their intimacy.
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Chapter 10
