Parting March

Since her father Dennis fell seriously ill, Christine had been at his bedside nearly every day, managing everything on her own. She had lost a great deal of weight, her already slender frame now looking frighteningly frail.

Dennis watched her, heart aching. “Christine, I’m all right. You don’t have to be here every day. Why not spend more time with Scott at home?”

At the mention of Scott, Christine’s hand—which had been peeling an apple—faltered. The knife pressed into the fleshy part of her thumb, and blood welled up instantly.

She pulled her hand back, hiding it behind her, afraid her father would notice. Forcing a smile, she said, “Scott? Oh, he’s… swamped at work.”

In truth, Scott hadn’t been home for a long time. The house stood empty now, holding only her—lonely, pitiable.

She couldn’t understand why her newlywed husband, who had once doted on her, had turned so cold and distant.

Was it her fault? Was she the problem? Those questions coiled around her heart during countless sleepless nights, squeezing the air from her lungs until she couldn’t breathe.

Finally, one day, she gathered her courage and stopped Scott as he hurried out. “Scott, have I done something wrong?”

She had shattered her pride to ask—only to be met with a furrowed brow. “Stop overthinking things.”

Then he turned and left. He hadn’t returned since.

Her father was gravely ill, and Scott hadn’t visited even once.

To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie.

In front of her father, she kept up a cheerful front. “Dad, don’t worry. Scott treats me very well. I’ll go get you more broth, all right?”

Without waiting for a reply, she stood and hurried out.

Clutching her still-bleeding thumb, she rushed to the bathroom and ran the cold water. The icy stream stung the wound. She squeezed the blood out as if punishing herself, the sharp pain making her gasp.

It was the pain—and the helplessness—that sent the tears flowing uncontrollably.

Christine leaned over the sink, then slowly slid to the floor, trying to steady herself.

A long time later, she gently rubbed her swollen eyes and stood to leave. She had no one to rely on now. In the end, she still had to pick herself up.

As she lifted her head, her eyes met those of someone entering the room.

“Oh, Scott, I just twisted my ankle. Why the wheelchair? You’re making such a fuss,” a woman cooed to the man behind her.

The man gazed at her affectionately. “Better safe. I’ll push you.”

Christine couldn’t believe her eyes. The man was Scott—the one she thought of day and night.

Her mouth opened slightly, but her voice came out hoarse, almost soundless. She wanted to ask who this woman was.

After a long moment, she managed a dry whisper. “Scott…”

Scott seemed to read her thoughts. “An old friend,” he replied flatly.

She just said, “Oh,” not daring to press further.

“Scott, my father is right here,” she tried