Chapter 4
Ethan ran after me.
He caught up, pale-faced, lips pressed tight, and grabbed my wrist.
He didn't speak, didn't even look at me.
He just stood there, head down, refusing to let go.
When I finally pulled my hand free, he suddenly looked up.
His eyes were rimmed red, his face trembling slightly. "Mom," he whispered, "are you going to leave me?"
How strange. He still knew how to call me Mom.
I had poured everything I had into raising him. Even when he thought I was useless, I still tried to please him, to win his approval.
Now that I had decided to give him up, it would've been a lie to say I didn't feel anything.
The hand in my coat pocket clenched involuntarily.
But my voice stayed calm. "You're an adopted child," I said. "You don't have a mother."
Ethan's pupils quivered.
He looked as if he'd just been caught doing something wrong—panic flashing across his small, pale face.
I turned away and walked down the steps, leaving the front yard behind.
Ronan's voice sounded behind me. "Just how far are you planning to take this, Lily?"
I ignored him and got into the cab.
Through the rearview mirror, I saw Ethan running after the car, his face drained of color.
Ronan didn't follow.
He'd been proud for too many years—and he had every reason to be.
He had a privileged background, exceptional Go talent.
He was never the type of man to lower himself, not even to take a single step toward me.
I watched Ethan chase the car desperately.
He was still just a child—he didn't make it far before stumbling and falling hard to the ground.
He sat there, staring at me, pointing frantically at his scraped knee, as if that would make me stop.
I remembered how, back in preschool, a teacher once messaged me because he'd nicked his finger.
I had dropped everything and rushed over.
Maybe he just assumed I would always do the same.
But now, sitting in the back seat of that cab, I only glanced at him once and felt nothing.
In my final glimpse through the window, I saw Ronan had finally come out.
He didn't even look at Ethan, who was still sitting on the ground. His eyes were fixed on me instead.
We were too far apart for me to see his expression clearly.
All I could make out was the silhouette of him standing there, motionless.
The winter wind in Seaboren was strong. He stood there in silence, facing the direction I'd left, not moving for a long, long time.
After seven years of marriage, it was the first time he had ever taken a step toward me.
No one would ever know what he was thinking.
Halfway through the train ride back, I received a text from him.
[About that night,] he wrote, [I can explain.]
No apology. No remorse.
But for Ronan, that single sentence was probably the furthest he'd ever bent, the closest thing to compromise he could manage.
I turned off my phone and didn't reply.
He had changed numbers countless times just to reach me. And I'd blocked and deleted him just as many.
I was tired—too tired to keep wasting my strength on him anymore.
As for that so-called explanation, I no longer needed it.
Outside the car window, Seaboren's skyscrapers slowly faded into the distance.
Ethan was still sitting on the ground, and Ronan stood there in the cold wind, silent.
The two figures—one tall, one small—defeated and helpless, soon disappeared from sight.
I took out my SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it out the window.
Everything in the past ended right there.
I settled down in town, hired a lawyer, and began the divorce proceedings.
Then I moved out of the orphanage and rented a small place of my own.
With my daughter growing day by day, I opened a small psychology clinic.
The idea of psychological treatment was still new—almost alien—in a small, underdeveloped town like this.
Once, a new mother who hadn't even finished her confinement period jumped into the river after a fight with her husband and mother-in-law.
The townspeople said she'd been possessed. Hardly anyone had heard of postpartum depression.
Another time, a left-behind child—his parents working in the city—nearly took his own life because of undiagnosed autism.
The neighbors said the kid was just too young and too stubborn, that he had a father but no proper mother to teach him.
Few people believed in things like autism or childhood depression.
I started by teaching basic psychology courses at the town's elementary school. I also gave free talks to raise awareness among residents.
Most of the townspeople were elderly. At first, they were more concerned about whether I was handing out free gifts.
But everything changed after the school's final exams.
A few of the autistic children from the orphanage whom I had treated made huge progress.
Two of them, who had always been at the bottom of their class, suddenly ranked in the top ten.
The others showed noticeable improvement as well.
Families with children started paying attention.
They began sending their quiet, disobedient kids to my clinic, as if they were signing up for an after-school class.
Their misunderstanding made me sigh, but at least the outcome was good.
Children with mental health issues were no longer being neglected.
And more and more of them were recovering.
Before long, even adults who suspected they had psychological problems began coming to me—early in the morning, or late in the evening—knocking shyly on my door, embarrassed but hopeful.
Acceptance always took time.
But fortunately, my efforts weren't in vain.
People in town no longer felt ashamed when talking about mental health.
My clinic grew more and more well-known.
I became busier, started getting patients from other towns, and even hired an assistant.
On the rare days when I could free up some time, I still went to schools to give lessons.
When I saw Ronan and Ethan again, it was already the following spring.
The trees were budding, the air warm and bright.
That freezing, stormy night when I had taken a cab alone to the hospital to give birth, all that cold and helplessness had long faded away.
They found me while I was giving an open lecture at the middle school.
The tiered classroom was packed with people.
In the very front row sat a little girl who had recently ranked second in her grade.
She used to be autistic, too.
After six months of therapy, her condition had improved dramatically. She was cheerful now, always eager to be near me.
As I spoke onstage, she rushed up to help me adjust the projector.
The room buzzed with laughter and chatter.
I looked at the children and talked about learning to let go of shame, about facing one's mental health honestly.
Then, I shared my own story—how I had struggled with childhood autism, and later, postpartum depression.
Just as my voice faded, I lifted my eyes—and there they were, Ronan and Ethan, standing quietly by the back door of the classroom.