Three Suicides and a Survival

The stove's fire still burned warmly, and the porridge in the pot bubbled softly, tiny frothy bubbles rising. Nona hugged her doll and leaned against my leg, her voice gentle and soft: "Mom, today when we sorted through the old trunk, whose unopened letters were those?" My movement faltered; the hand holding the soup ladle tightened. Those letters were sent by Zachary Lowell. From the day he was diagnosed with cancer, one letter after another arrived steadily in my hands. I have not opened a single one. Last month, while tidying the storage room, I threw them all into an iron basin and set them on fire. Flames licked the cream-colored envelopes; the black ink curled and charred in the intense heat, finally turning to ashes. The wind slipped in through the window crack, carrying the ashes outside as if they had never existed. "Mom?" Nona lifted her face, her large eyes brimming with curiosity. "Was that person someone who loved you?" I lowered my head and stroked her soft hair. Love? That question—I have asked myself countless times. "Is he still alive?" Nona asked again. Those words pulled my thoughts away, like being caught in a bottomless whirlpool, suddenly plunging me back ten years. Ten years ago in H City, autumn was at its height. The Yip Family villa was aglow with lanterns and decorations; servants bustled about, busy preparing for my twenty-fifth birthday banquet. I wore the off-white dress that Zachary Lowell had given me, sitting on the living room sofa, my fingertips repeatedly tracing the embroidered patterns on its hem. He had personally chosen the style, saying that this color suited me—like the mist on an early autumn morning, pure and gentle. At that time, we were the couple everyone envied. Zachary Lowell was handsome and gentle, attentive to me in every way. I thought that naturally, we would proceed to get engaged, marry, and build a little home of our own. Halfway through the birthday party, my cousin Joyce Cooper suddenly pulled me aside, and we slipped into the garden behind the villa. Her face was pale, her eyes frantic, and her hands clenched tightly at the hem of her clothes, her fingertips white. "Rachel," her voice trembling, "I have something to tell you." A faint unease stirred in my heart as I smiled and asked, "Joyce, what is it? Why so serious?" Joyce Cooper took a deep breath, as if summoning immense courage, looked up at me, and said deliberately, "I'm pregnant. It's Zachary's." With a loud crash, I felt the whole world spinning around me. The music and laughter around me vanished, leaving only the heavy pounding of my own heart. "What did you say?" I could hardly believe my ears; my voice was as dry as sandpaper scraping. "Joyce, don't joke—today is my birthday." "I'm not joking!" Joyce's tears fell as she gripped my hand so tightly it hurt. "Rachel, I know I've wronged you, but I'm carrying his child—I cannot be without him. Please give Zachary to me, will you?"