Chapter 4

Every time Cyrus smelled shortbread cookies, he would run to the door with a wide grin to greet her.

But Jennifer never knew the truth. My son had asthma. He did not like dry, crumbly shortbread cookies at all. What he loved was seeing Jennifer come home safe.

A hollow ache spread through my chest, yet I forced a faint smile. "Thanks."

Jennifer let out a quiet breath of relief. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. "Andy, I want to talk to you about something."

My chest tightened. "What is it?"

She sat beside me and leaned into my arms.

"I know you want our son to go to school. I want that too, so I talked it over with Phil." Her voice remained calm, as if she had already settled everything. "Tommy can take our son's spot at school for now. After class, he can come to our place and teach our son what he learned that day. What do you think?"

I gave no answer. The last bit of warmth in my chest faded.

Jennifer seemed to sense that something was wrong. She avoided my eyes and continued, "I don't have a choice. Phil just went through a divorce. He belongs to a vulnerable group. He needs help."

A vulnerable group, huh? What about my son? He was only seven. Was he not vulnerable too? Yet she abandoned him without hesitation. All for Phillip.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, only coldness remained.

"He can take the spot," I said. "But you have to promise me one thing."

Jennifer nodded at once. "What is it?"

"Come home tomorrow night and celebrate our son's birthday."

She nodded without hesitation. "Mission accepted."

…

On the third day, I cooked a table full of my son's favorite dishes. I placed his memorial photo on a chair and waited quietly for Jennifer to come home.

The elders always said that on the seventh day after death, a soul returned to the world one last time to see the family again. I hoped that when my son came back, he would see both of us celebrating his final birthday.

The clock ticked again and again. Eight o'clock passed, yet Jennifer had not come home.

I could not wait any longer. I went to look for Jennifer.

…

The moment I stepped outside our courtyard, fireworks burst along the roadside.

It was deep winter, and the sharp crack of fireworks and firecrackers echoed through the dark street.

I began to walk around them.

Then Phillip's voice drifted over. "Jenny, be careful. Don't let Tommy get burned."

He stood under a tree. His voice sounded gentle. Jennifer answered with a soft hum. She struck a match and lit the firework in the boy's hand.

I heard her say, "Tommy, congratulations. Tomorrow you officially start school!"

Phillip covered his ears and shouted, "Tommy, happy first day of school!"

I stood in the shadows and watched them. Each laugh tore through my chest.

Yes, school started tomorrow. But my child would never see that day.

"Jennifer, do you know? It's been seven days since our son died. You promised to celebrate his birthday. Why are you celebrating another man's child instead? Do you still remember our Cyrus? Tomorrow should have been his first day of school too," I muttered.

I did not disturb them. I turned around and walked home in silence.

…

The pasta on the table had clumped together into a soggy mess.

I took a bite. Then I looked at my son's photo and forced a smile.

My vision blurred with tears. "So salty. Saltier than the food Dad ate at the hospital that day. Cyrus, it's your birthday today. Happy birthday. Dad misses you."

…

That night, Jennifer set off fireworks with Phillip's son until dawn. I stayed beside my son's photo and finished the entire plate of pasta.

When morning came, I went to my room and began to pack.

At that moment, Jennifer returned home. "Cyrus, Mom is back! There was a last-minute mission yesterday. Mom didn't get the chance to tell you. I missed your birthday. But Mom bought you a birthday present. A new backpack. Come try—"

Her words stopped mid-sentence.

Jennifer's gaze locked onto the memorial photo on the chair.