The Wife He Forgot To Love Chapter 12
Bradley never asked for money again after that.
He found a job, working on a construction site.
The skin on his hands wore away layer after layer, but he did not utter a single word of complaint.
On the day he got paid, he transferred 400 dollars to Jonathan.
The note read: “Paying back my sister.”
Jonathan did not accept it.
When the notification prompted him to receive the payment, he did not click it.
It was not that he did not want it, but that even if he accepted this money, Daniela would not come back.
Jaelyn called every once in a while.
She no longer asked, “When will this month’s living expenses be transferred?”
What she asked was, “Is Pauline doing well?” and “Are you doing well?”
After asking, she would say no more.
It was as if saying one more word would shatter something.
She once said on the phone, “Jon, I dreamed of Dani. She was wearing a white dress, standing in a very high place, smiling at me. I wanted to call out to her, but I couldn’t make a sound. She took one look at me, turned around, and walked away.”
She fell silent for a long time, then asked again, “Tell me, is she still blaming me?”
Jonathan did not know.
The her in his dreams had not forgiven him either.
On some days, Jonathan went alone to the place where she lived as a child.
The dirt road was still there, the dirt walls were still there, but the chickens in the yard were gone.
He stood in the middle of the yard, and the wind blew from the northwest, carrying the smell of yellow earth.
She had grown up in this wind since she was a child.
Her room was very small, with a single bed and a simple desk, and on the desk were words she had carved during her school days.
He leaned in closer to look; it was carved with “Keep going, Daniela.”
Keep going.
She told herself to keep going.
No one told her to keep going.
She said it to herself.
He sat on that single bed; the bed board was rock hard and uncomfortably stiff.
She had slept on this bed for over a decade; there was no heating in the winter, and it was still cold even with two quilts.
When she woke up in the morning, the water in her cup would be frozen into ice, and she would walk out from here, walking five kilometers on a muddy road to go to school.
He sat for a long time.
When he left, he stood at the gate of that yard for a while.
He saw that old fruit tree; she had said that when she was little, she would climb up to pick fruit to eat.
He thought about how she had set out from this place, walked so far, gotten into college, arrived in Seattle, gotten married, and had a child.
She thought she had made it out.
She had not.
She had never made it out.
Because those things were not on the outside, but on the inside.
In her bones, in her blood. In every mean word he had later spoken.
She carried them with her for her entire life.
That autumn, Jonathan took Pauline to the park.
Pauline was seven years old, running back and forth on the grass, chasing a butterfly.
She ran very slowly, and when the butterfly flew away, she did not chase it.
She ran back and threw herself into his arms.
Her face was very soft, and she smelled like laundry detergent.
She looked up and asked, “Daddy, where is Mommy?”
He squatted down and looked into her eyes.
“Mommy went to a place very far away.”
“When is she coming back?”
“She is not coming back.”
Pauline did not understand.
She tilted her head, thought for a moment, and asked again, “Does Mommy not want us anymore?”
His heart felt as if it were being squeezed by someone.
“No. It’s not that Mommy doesn’t want you. Mommy was just too tired.”
Pauline lowered her head, picking at her fingers.
After a while, she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket; it was already crumpled and yellowing, and written on it was, “Mommy loves you.”
She said, “Mommy tucked this into my clothes, and I have kept it all along.”
He hugged her and said, “You see, Mommy loves you. She will always love you.”
Before she died, she had used her last bit of strength to write these words.
She did not write them for herself. She wrote them for her daughter.
She left all the remaining love she had in this world to her.
Jonathan stood on the grass in the park; the wind blew over, the sunlight was beautiful, and Pauline was running in front of him.
She ran very slowly, and when the butterfly flew away, she did not chase it.
He suddenly remembered that she had been dead for three years and seventy-two days.