Chapter 2

The subway rolled past station after station, the lights outside streaming by like a river. Charlotte leaned against the door and closed her eyes.

Memories she thought she'd buried long ago began to surface, one after another, like turning the pages of an old photo album.

In the first year, she had married into the Carter family, and Ethan's mother was still alive.

Amelia Carter was a tiny, frail woman. After months battling cancer, she was so thin that she was practically skin and bones. But when she smiled, her eyes would crinkle, looking so much like Charlotte's late mother.

"Charlotte," Amelia said, holding her hand, her voice weak but gentle, "Ethan never really learned how to care for people. Please be patient with him."

Charlotte nodded. "You can count on me."

She really wanted to be a good wife. Every morning, she got up at 5:30 to make soup, prepare her medicine, and take care of Amelia.

The nurses at the hospital would say, "Your daughter is so devoted," and she smiled, never bothered to correct them.

Ethan was already busy back then. His new company was getting started, and he was out early and back late every day, sometimes not coming home for dinner for days.

When she called to ask if he'd be home, the background noise was always chaotic, and he'd say, "I'm busy," and hang up right away.

She understood. A man needed his career, and she didn't want to be the one holding him back.

On their first wedding anniversary, she cooked a feast, all his favorites. She started at four in the afternoon, steam filling the kitchen, her apron splattered with soy sauce, sweat beading on her forehead.

By nine, the food was cold. She reheated the fish.

By ten, the fish was cold again. She didn't bother to reheat it.

At eleven, he called. "I'm out for a business dinner. Not coming home tonight."

"Okay," she replied.

After hanging up, she dumped the dishes into the trash one by one. The sauce seeped across the garbage bag, spreading out like a dark red stain, almost like a flower.

She stood there in the kitchen, watching it slowly spread, not moving for a long time.

Finally, she took out the cake from the fridge. It was already soft and sagging. She'd made it herself, the frosting messy, and she'd written "Happy Anniversary" in chocolate. She sat by herself at the table and ate the whole thing.

The frosting was so sweet that it made her throat ache.

In the second year, Amelia passed away.

On that day, Ethan was away on a business trip and couldn't make it back. Charlotte was the only one by her bedside, holding her hand, watching as she slowly closed her eyes.

The last thing Amelia said was, "Charlotte, thank you."

She never told Ethan that when his mother passed away, she was the only one there.

That year, he was busier. His company was finally on track, and he started flying all over the country. When she called, eight out of ten times his secretary answered. "Mr. Carter is in a meeting. Can I take a message?"

"No, it's nothing," she'd say, then hang up.

She learned not to expect anything from him. On their anniversary, she didn't cook.

On her birthday, she didn't wait for his wishes. During the New Year, she went alone to visit relatives, carrying bags of gifts.

Everyone asked, "Where's Ethan?" and she'd say, "He's busy with work."

On the way home, Charlotte sat in the back seat of the taxi, leaning against the window, watching the festive decoration flicker past outside.

Suddenly, she felt like a forgotten lamp in the corner. It was still shining, but no one noticed.

In the third year, she'd stopped crying.

She got used to eating alone, sleeping alone, and spending every holiday by herself. The fridge always had his favorite soda water.

She replaced it every week, tossing out the old bottles and buying new ones if they expired. She'd done this for three years, like second nature, without thinking.

The month before their divorce, she waited for him to come home for the last time.

It was her birthday. She didn't tell him, because she knew it wouldn't matter. She sat in the living room, the TV on with the volume turned down low, waiting for the sound of the door unlocking.

The door finally opened at two in the morning.

He walked in, stopped in his tracks when he saw her curled up on the couch. "Why aren't you in bed?"

Charlotte looked at him.

The warm yellow light in the living room softened his features, casting a gentle glow across his face.

He wore a dark gray shirt, the cuffs undone, showing a bit of his wrist. His fingers were long and distinct. She used to love those hands.

But now, as she looked at him, he suddenly seemed like a stranger.

"Ethan," she called him by his full name, "do you remember what I look like?"

He frowned, probably thinking she was making a fuss again. "You must be tired. Get some rest." He slipped on his slippers, headed for the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.

Charlotte sat on the couch, listening as the door closed behind him.

A quiet click echoed in the room.

But she knew, once that door shut, it would never open for her again.

A month later, Vivian laid a few photos in front of him. The pictures showed her having dinner with a college friend who had returned from abroad; the photos were taken at angles that made things look ambiguous, their faces unclear.

She hadn't cheated; it was an old friend catching up over a meal.

Ethan never asked her for an explanation.

He had his secretary deliver the divorce papers.

She brought the papers to him and asked, "You really believe this?"

He stood with his back to her, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, his voice icy. "The photos say it all."

She didn't try to defend herself.

Not because she couldn't, but because it hit her all at once. If he wouldn't ask, it meant he stopped trusting her a long time ago. The photos were an excuse.

She signed the papers and walked out of Carter Tower. The sun was shining brightly that day.

As Charlotte stood by the curb waiting for the light to change, she suddenly thought, 'Maybe the stone that's been weighing on my chest for three years isn't so heavy anymore.'

The subway announcement pulled her back to reality. "Attention passengers, we've reached the terminal station. Please take all your belongings with you..."

She opened her eyes. The car was empty. She stood up, picked up her canvas bag, and stepped out onto the platform. The late autumn wind swept in from the tunnel, smelling of rust and damp earth.

She stood on the platform, staring at the empty tracks, and suddenly remembered what Amelia once said. "Ethan never really learned how to love anyone."

It was not that he couldn't love. He never wanted to love her.

When she walked out of the subway station, night had already fallen. The streetlights stretched her shadow long across the pavement. She wrapped her coat tighter and hurried toward the spot Maggie had texted her.

It was a little barbecue place on the corner, the neon sign half-dead, so busted that the word "barbecue" only showed a single glowing line.

Maggie was already there, holding down a table with a lineup of beers. As soon as she spotted Charlotte, she waved her over. "Here. I got you twenty chicken wings. Do you think that'll do the trick?"

Charlotte sat down, dropped her canvas bag at her feet, grabbed a beer, and chugged a big gulp straight from the bottle.

Maggie watched her closely, then asked in a gentle voice, "You alright?"

Charlotte set the bottle down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and gave a small smile.

"I'm fine," she said. "Starting tomorrow, I'm Charlotte again, not anybody's wife."

Maggie paused for a couple of seconds, then raised her bottle. "To Charlotte."

"To Charlotte," Charlotte echoed.

The bottles clinked together with a sharp, clear ring. The greasy smoke of the barbecue joint, the bitterness of the beer, and the flickering half-dead neon overhead.

All that messy, lively energy of ordinary people slowly dragged her out of that cold, sterile penthouse lounge, piece by piece.

That night, she drank four beers, ate twenty chicken wings, and crashed on Maggie's couch like a log.

She didn't dream.

It was the best sleep she'd had in three years.