Chase’s first love, Joyce, posted an update on her social feed. It shared a news headline saying, “An asteroid may collide with Earth within a month. The United Nations has activated the Planetary Security Protocol for the first time.”
Beneath it, she wrote, “The end of the world, and you are not by my side.”
I was just about to laugh at her melodrama. Believing clickbait headlines and viral scare news, how ridiculous.
But not long after, my husband, an astronomy professor, rushed home in high spirits and told me he wanted a divorce.
“An asteroid will hit Earth in seven years. Let’s divorce. I don’t want to keep settling during the final month.”
My hands froze as I was washing his underwear. I looked at him in disbelief.
So this kind of news was not funny at all.
What was laughable was that as long as the words came from her, no matter how stupid they were, he would believe them.
I flung the dripping underwear straight at his face and said calmly,
“It’s just a divorce, right I agree.”
……
“I’m sorry, Emma.”
Chase’s voice came from the living room, calm, as if he were delivering an academic presentation.
“If this world really only has one month left, I want to spend the final days pursuing my true love.”
“That person was never you.”
When he said this, I was squatting in the bathroom, head lowered, scrubbing the underwear he had just taken off with my bare hands.
Cold water mixed with detergent ran over my fingers again and again.
My skin was already wrinkled, red, and burning with pain, yet I did not stop.
Because he was a Peking University astronomy professor.
He had always been meticulous, almost obsessive.
Clothes could not go into the washing machine. Underwear had to be washed by hand.
Every single piece.
This time consuming, exhausting housework had been my routine for ten years.
For those ten years, I buried my identity as a Beijing socialite, lowered myself into the dust, all to protect his pride.
And now, he stood in the living room and, in the calmest tone possible, sentenced my ten years of devotion to death.
When I did not respond, he seemed to lose patience. His voice suddenly rose, and he repeated himself.
“Let’s divorce.”
The television was still on.
The news anchor spoke clearly and formally.
“An asteroid may collide with Earth in seven years.”
The wording was identical to what Joyce had posted on her feed.
A 2.3 percent probability.
At that moment, it was infinitely magnified, like a nail driven straight into my heart.
I suddenly felt drained of all strength.
“Just 2.3 percent.”
I spoke softly, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar even to myself.
“You’re an astronomy professor. Can’t you tell what probability means? The chance of an actual collision is negligible.”
But he suddenly lost control, breathing rapidly, and shoved the bathroom door open.
“That’s not important!”
“Even if it’s only one in ten thousand, I don’t want to waste another moment with you!”
His eyes were red, yet his tone was unnervingly firm.
“Joyce can’t be alone anymore.”
“As long as you agree to the divorce, you can name any conditions you want.”
I stood hunched over at the sink. Water rushed loudly.
Tears fell without warning.
Ten years of marriage.
In the end, it could not withstand a hypothetical probability of the apocalypse.
The argument alarmed our son, who had been doing his homework in his room.
Felix stood at the doorway. After hearing everything, there was none of the panic I had expected on his face.
Instead, he was unusually calm.
“Mom, you shouldn’t tie Dad down.”
When he said this, his tone was exactly like Chase’s.
“An asteroid hitting Earth is such an important matter. Dad wants to be with the person he truly loves. What’s wrong with that?”
“I’ve met Aunt Joyce.”
“She’s like a fairy. She stays with Dad and me. I think it’s pretty good.”
At that moment, I froze.
So it was not just the eyebrows and eyes.
Even the way he spoke, that cold, self righteous certainty, he had learned it all perfectly.
I raised my hand and slowly wiped the tears from the corner of my mouth.
My other hand, however, instinctively pressed against my lower abdomen.
It felt empty there, unbearably cold, impossible to warm no matter how tightly I held it.
This child was never meant to stay.
A week earlier, in this same bathroom, I had stared at the clear red line on the pregnancy test, my heart pounding as if it were about to explode.
A second child.
I had even planned how I would tell him.
I never imagined that what awaited me instead would be this kind of judgment.
I lifted my head and flicked my wrist.
The freshly washed, dripping underwear flew through the air.
One hit Chase square in the face.
Another landed at my son’s feet.
“It’s just a divorce, isn’t it?”
I smiled, but the smile was colder than ice.
“I agree. It takes effect in seven days.”
“And as for your disgusting underwear.”
“From now on, let your fairy wash it for you.”
