Chapter 3
The very first time I met Freddie was at a skating rink.
When I was seven, children at the orphanage falsely accused me of stealing, and the director beat me severely with a cane.
I snuck out late that night, sitting alone by an outdoor rink to watch people glide across the ice. Freddie, who had finished his practice, found me and brought me home.
He was two years older than me, raised in a single-parent household, and he shared his only mother with me.
I finally had a family. I learned how to skate alongside him, and I gained a true friend.
When I turned twelve, we teamed up for pairs figure skating and entered national competitions together.
A mistake on my end caused us to place third.
After the event, I wiped away tears of heavy guilt.
Freddie pressed the bronze medal firmly into my palm, gently drying my eyes with a tissue.
"Lily, you're still so young. Winning any medal is an amazing achievement," he said.
When I turned twenty, we captured our first international gold medal in pairs skating.
Still wearing his skates on the ice, he excitedly hoisted me high into the air and officially announced our relationship to countless flashing cameras.
We eventually got married, and then we welcomed our precious little boy, Anton White.
The increase in body fat and decrease in flexibility caused by childbirth made my performance on the ice increasingly difficult.
Our coach began dropping subtle hints, suggesting Freddie find a new partner.
On that specific day, Freddie lost his temper at the rink for the very first time.
The overwhelming internet praise calling us a golden couple slowly shifted into a landslide of criticism and vicious insults aimed entirely at me.
I suffered multiple mental breakdowns and was diagnosed with mild depression.
Freddie defended me recklessly, facing numerous disciplinary actions from the national team.
We survived several dark years together.
Things only changed when Anton grew older. Around age three, he started tagging along to the rink with us.
Anton was under four, yet he displayed immense talent for the sport.
He was a miniature version of Freddie, gliding across the rink in custom mini skates and taking on real tournaments.
His small frame stood proudly on top of the podium.
His face beamed with pride as he shouted toward me in the crowd, "Mom, I won."
He inherited Freddie's bold confidence on the ice, and he learned his father's gentle devotion toward me.
Late one night, while I suffered from severe cramps and Freddie was at the training center being lectured, my five-year-old son stood on a stool to make me a steaming hot ginger drink.
Mimicking Freddie's soothing tone, Anton coaxed me, "Drink a little bit, Mom. It is not bitter at all."
His sweetness made me laugh, and the years of gloom and insecurity in my heart were gradually swept away.
That same night, I made the firm decision to retire.
I had shared my most glorious years on the ice with Freddie.
I was completely unwilling to hold him back any longer.
However, I wanted to end things on a flawless note.
Thus, I chose to enter one final competition with Freddie.
Out on the ice, as our routine neared its end, he lifted and launched me into the air. Right then, my blood sugar spiked down, and everything went dizzy for a terrifying second.
He managed to catch me, but the momentum sent him crashing backward onto the hard ice.
I never dared to revisit the memory of that day.
On that day, I watched with my own eyes as my husband died right in front of me.