Three Years, One Wrong Door

Synopsis

When I was four months pregnant, I wanted to turn the spare room into a nursery. James was silent for a long time before finally saying, "That room can't be touched." That was the room his first love had lived in before she went abroad. There was a single bed, an old desk lamp, and Polaroids she'd left on the wall years ago. Even after three years of marriage, I'd never set foot in there. He said it was something he wanted to hold onto for a friend, and told me not to be so narrow-minded. But our baby was about to be born. I stood at the doorway, holding my prenatal checkup report, and asked him, "Where is the baby going to sleep?" He glanced at his phone. "Just put a crib in the master bedroom. The baby is tiny, and it won't take up much space." The baby hardly took up any space, and I barely did, either. All these years, the person who took up the most room in this house was someone who never returned. And then, she actually came back. She'd gotten divorced, standing at the door with her luggage, her eyes red as she called out to him, "James, I have nowhere else to go." James immediately opened that room, his movements so practiced, as if he'd done it a thousand times before. I stood in the living room, still holding the moon lamp I'd bought for the baby. She glanced at my baby bump and murmured, "I'll stay for a few days, hope that's okay." James took her suitcase and shot me a look. "You're a bit unstable right now. Don't freak her out." Didn't freak her out. I lowered my gaze to my belly. The baby gave a little kick inside. It felt like the baby was telling me it's time to wake up. That night, I returned the moon lamp. The customer service asked for the reason. I thought for a moment, then typed in some words: Not enough space.