New Life at Sixty

On my sixtieth birthday, the sun outside was already high, but inside the room, it felt as cold as an ice cellar. No cake, no longevity noodles, and not a single decent blessing. I sat at the dining table, my fingers gripping a thin diagnosis report tightly, its edges wrinkled from being pinched, my fingertips icy and numb. On it, the black words "late-stage cancer" stabbed at my chest like steel needles, squeezing my heart tight. "Robert, look at this." I gently pushed the diagnosis report toward Robert Collins sitting across from me. He kept his head down, rubbing the mahjong tile in his hand, his fingertip repeatedly tracing those familiar patterns, not even blinking. "What is it? Don't hold me up before the afternoon game." His voice was heavy with impatience, as if I'd interrupted something enormously important to him. I took a deep breath, my throat tightened, and I said slowly, word by word, "I have cancer, late-stage." Only then did Robert Collins slowly lift his eyes; the cloudy pupils showed no surprise, no worry—only a calculating gleam flickering within. "Can it be cured? How much will it cost?" The very first thing he said struck straight into my pain. "The doctor said there's not much time left, and treatment won't do much good." My voice trembled uncontrollably, carrying a faint spark of hope, wishing he would say something gentler. He paused for a moment, then opened the drawer beside him, took out a red bankbook, and placed it on the table. "The family's money needs to be saved to buy our child a house. Your illness... don't waste the money." He said it matter-of-factly, as if my life mattered less than a house. I looked at the man who had shared my bed for forty years, and my heart sank little by little, growing cold as if soaked in ice water. "Well, after I'm gone, shouldn't we at least buy an urn?" My voice was weak, carrying the last trace of accusation. "Urns aren't cheap either." He frowned, as if calculating a bad deal. "How about we go Dutch? I pay half, you pay half." That sentence was like a sharp knife, instantly piercing my last line of defense. I felt a chill all over my body, even colder than when I learned the cancer diagnosis—cold enough to make my teeth chatter. "Robert Collins, we've been married for forty years, and is this how you treat me?" I suddenly raised my voice, my words heavy with endless disappointment and pain. "What do you expect? You know perfectly well our family situation—our child's marriage and buying a house is a big deal." He put away the bankbook, stood up, and was about to leave, as if even staying a second longer was too much trouble. "All you do is play cards all day; you don't care about the family, and you don't care about my illness either. Are you even fit to be a husband?" I couldn't hold back anymore; my voice was full of years of suppressed grievance and anger. "Say less." He opened the door and left without looking back, saying, "They are waiting for me. Don't spoil everyone's mood." With a bang, the door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the empty room. The diagnosis report lay spread out on the table like a merciless verdict, reflecting my forty years of empty, pitiful marriage. I leaned over the table, my shoulders trembling, tears falling silently and soaking that cold paper.