The Prisoner of Time Chapter 9

Years later, life moved as if sleepwalking.

One weekend, our daughter returned home. Bright and determined, she had gone into geriatric medical research. Alzheimer’s was one of her chosen studies. Her mentor, an expert in the field, had told her new drug trials were beginning.

“Mom, when I get access to the trial, Dad will be one of the first patients,” she promised, eyes fierce.

That day, she placed a framed wedding portrait of Shen Weilin and Zhao Yulan in our living room. Their youth was radiant handsome, graceful, perfect together. More striking than any photo he and I had ever taken.

For the first time in decades, strange peace entered me. This, I thought, was the truth all along. This was the fate meant to be.

And yet, even staring at it, Shen Weilin’s eyes held confusion.

“Are there no others? No photos of me and your mother?” he asked our daughter softly.

She shook her head. “When Mom passed away, she took them with her.”

“Ah.” I jumped in quickly, “There was an album, but it must have been lost when we moved. I’ll have Aling look again another day; perhaps it can be found.”

Our daughter frowned at me, knowing I deceived.

But Shen accepted it quietly, brushing fingers over Yulan’s face in the photo. “So, we truly were married.”

Our daughter whispered later, her tone sharp with love, “Mom, don’t you see? He loves you. You’ve borne all the hardship, but he still treasures you. Why do you keep feeding him this illusion? Aren’t you afraid he’ll die believing his wife was someone else’s ghost?”

But I could not tell her the truth that would burn us all.

The truth that poisoned me every day, even in joy.

And still, Shen Weilin was good to me.

From the very beginning, after bankruptcy, after his parents died, after his life toppled, he never let me drown. He shifted weight from my shoulders, carved me time to rest, treated every sacrifice as shared. He fought to care for his mother so I could sleep, fought to bring laughter into his children’s childhoods, fought for years to keep my spirit alive.

He was always the good man. Always too good for me.

And I, the weed, the driftwood, could never forgive myself for stealing what should have been radiant love.