Farewell, Admiral

My husband was a senior military officer and a hardcore military fanatic. When I went into labor and my life was at risk, I begged him to sign the consent form for an emergency C-section.

Instead, he looked at me coldly and asked, “What’s the maximum cruising speed of a Boeing 747? Answer correctly, and I’ll sign.”

Later, my body tore from the prolonged labor, and our son suffocated to death.

He said calmly, as if reciting a fact, “One thousand one hundred and twenty-seven kilometers per hour. Remember that?”

At that moment, I looked at his indifferent expression and realized that I no longer loved him. With that, I left behind the divorce papers and disappeared from his life.

“Felix, the military-illiterate wife you were ashamed of will never come back.”

I placed the divorce papers and our son’s ultrasound photos beneath Felix Brown’s favorite aircraft model. Only that way would he ever notice them.

I clutched my lower abdomen, a dull ache spreading through it, my face drained of color. Then, I booked a plane ticket to Salt River City and turned to leave.

Lucy, our housekeeper, rushed out of the kitchen in a panic and stopped me. She hesitated and then said softly, “Ma’am, Admiral Brown said that as long as you’re willing to study military knowledge, he won’t stay angry with you.”

I gave a bitter smile and shook my head. Without looking back, I walked past her, saying, “No need.”

Just as I arrived at the airport, Felix called me—something he rarely did.

He suppressed his anger and accused me, “You snuck out on your own, caused a premature birth of our baby, and got my son killed, yet you still have the nerve to ask for a divorce?”

My hand trembled as I held the phone. Standing in the security line, surrounded by strangers, tears slipped down my face despite my efforts to stop them.

That very day, I was scheduled for my prenatal checkup. Felix, the child’s father, forgot about it entirely. That alone would have been bad enough, but to make things worse, he locked me in the house and forced me to memorize military facts. I had no choice but to climb out through a first-floor window. Never would I have foreseen that on the way to the hospital, I’d be hit by a car, triggering premature labor.

However, before I could explain any of this, his sharp voice cut in again, “Autumn, as a mother, you ignored your son’s safety and went out without my permission, leading to his death. For that, you’re utterly irresponsible, and as the admiral’s wife, you’re empty-headed and completely unworthy of your position.”

The noise around me blurred into a dull roar. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

After a long silence, I couldn’t help asking, “Our child is gone. Are you not at fault for that, too?”

I was eight months pregnant, so the baby was fully formed. The doctor had said that if