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My parents were married for thirty-six years, and for thirty-five of those, they slept in separate rooms. I always thought that was what marriage was supposed to be like, two people living side by side, distant and uninvolved. That illusion shattered when my father, in the final stage of lung cancer, brought the woman he had loved all his life straight into our home. My mother stood in the kitchen, chopping ribs. The sound of the cleaver was sharp and relentless. She did not even look up, and not a single word of protest left her lips. On the day of my father's funeral, the lawyer read the will in front of everyone. Eighty percent of the company's controlling shares were to be transferred to his first love, Shiloh. All the relatives waited for my mother to break down, to scream and make a scene. Instead, she simply nodded. "I understand." Three days later, Shiloh walked into the boardroom in ten centimeter heels as the new controlling shareholder, smiling with quiet triumph. Just as she lowered her pen to finalize the takeover, the lawyer suddenly stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is another will. Today is the first day it may be disclosed." The triumph on Shiloh's face froze instantly, and in the next second, her complexion turned as pale as paper.