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On the third day, he came home a little earlier. He found me placing labels all over the house. Ethan asked curiously, "Can't you do all this during the day?"
I smiled and replied, "I'm also doing them during the day."
He didn't understand. "When did you become so impatient?" he muttered.
My hand stopped for a moment.
"I don't have much time left."
Since he didn't understand, I gave him a direct clue .
He looked clearly startled — but, just as I expected, he said nothing.
On the fourth day, I cooked a lavish dinner and waited for Ethan to come home to eat with me. "I made all your favorite dishes . Come back early tonight, okay?"
"Got it."
By eight that evening, I knew he wasn’t coming back .
Lily had posted a pitiful photo of herself at a doctor’s office on social media.
A man's hand appeared in the frame just right. I would recognize that hand even in ashes. . It was Ethan's.
There are no such coincidences in this world. I’d made sure Lily knew the time of that dinner. Ethan missed that final dinner — for Lily.
He would remember this dinner for the rest of his life!
I tidied the house carefully, one thing at a time — but I left the dishes on the table untouched. The tonic soup I’d stewed for Ethan still sat warm in the rice cooker.
I left sticky notes everywhere they were needed: Your tie is in the second drawer on the left; take two stomach pills, three times a day...
The fridge was stocked with fruit and fresh ingredients, along with dumplings, wontons, and noodles I’d made by hand — each package labeled with the date and cooking instructions.
In the drawer of the bedroom , lay my pregnancy test report and the diagnosis for Alzheimer's.
I left my phone behind. It was filled with countless memos, recordings and videos.
Everything Ethan had given me over the years — , I left it all, untouched, in this house.
Goodbye, Ethan.
