Whenever Abigail cried, I was always the first to comfort her.
She often asked me, "Hubby, why are you so good to me?"
"Silly girl, because I love you," I would answer without hesitation.
Because of her, I almost fell out with my family. Because of her, I hurt the childhood friend who had always silently cared for me. Because of her, I endured countless strange looks and disdain.
I never told her any of this.
All I ever wanted was for her to be happy.
No matter how bitter or painful things were, I swallowed it all in silence.
Abigail said she wanted her own company.
So I swallowed my pride, apologized to my parents, and asked them to help her start it—then worked to pull in business for her.
She said she needed to focus on her career, that I shouldn't call her if there was nothing important, and definitely shouldn't visit her office.
She said...
And everything she said, every request she made, I fulfilled without exception.
She focused on her work, and I became the househusband—making sure that no matter how late she came home, there would always be a table of steaming hot food waiting for her.
My love for her was humble and small.
I never needed her to worry about the household. I never asked for anything in return—just hoped she still carried me in her heart.
Every time I watched her come home after work and devour the food I prepared, I felt genuinely satisfied.
I supported her career. I cared for our home. I did everything I possibly could.
But what I discovered today... cut straight to the bone.
I couldn't help asking myself. "Was I not good enough for her?"
No—she simply didn't love me anymore.
I used to believe that in a relationship, one person must do more, and since she was ambitious and career-driven, I would be the one to give.
In just six years, she became a self-made legend.
She was happy.
And I was happy for her.
But our love had already reached its end.
At this moment... I felt unbearably tired.
Love was selfish—when you give, you expect something in return.
My love for her kept me going for six years. But now, I couldn't hold on anymore.
I didn't regret loving her.
I didn't regret giving her six years.
But tonight's candlelight dinner would mark the end of our love and our marriage.
I wiped my tears, started the car, and drove out of the parking lot.
'Abigail, after tonight... I won't love you anymore.'
When I got home, the empty house felt colder than ever.
Six years—six long years of living like this. It was always me waiting for her to come home.
I never thought it was strange. But only now did I realize that our marriage had long become distorted.
Pa! Pa!
The live fish I bought was thrashed in the bag.
Abigail loved boiled fish—only the freshest ones, slaughtered right before cooking. Because of her preference, over the years I even learned how to pick the best fish at a glance.
It was a pity that I probably wouldn't need that skill anymore.
After an hour of cooking, I prepared a full table of dishes, including the boiled fish and braised ribs she specifically asked for.
I lit the candles, opened the bottle of red wine to let it breathe.
By then, it was almost midnight—and Abigail still hadn't returned.
After a moment of silence, I finally decided to call her.
The moment the call connected, I heard loud noises in the background—something like fireworks exploding.
"Hello, hubby!" Her voice was loud and cheerful.
"The food is ready," I said. "When are you coming home?"
"What? Hubby, what did you say? I can't hear you!"
Before I could repeat myself, she spoke again, her voice full of excitement. "Hubby, I'm watching fireworks right now! They're so beautiful, so romantic!"
My body stiffened.
Suddenly, I remembered—Abigail once told me she hated fireworks.
She said they were noisy and bad for the environment.
So why was she now...?
