Only After I Was Gone

Melissa Jones, the so-called 'fake' heiress, lost her memory trying to save me. Her memory was stuck at the time she was 18, back when our lives had not yet been set right.

Everyone told me to be the bigger person. In the new family portrait, I was the only one missing. My biological mother tried to comfort me, "Shirley, be reasonable. It's just a photo. We will make it up to you later."

I applied for the vice president position year after year, only to be rejected five times in a row. Then, when Melissa said she wanted to learn the business, my brother, Maverick Jones, approved it immediately.

Afterward, he turned to me and said, "You should give way to Melissa. You're the reason she lost her memory. I'm helping you make up for it."

When I went into labor and needed my husband, Charles Smith, to sign the consent for a C-section, he was one floor above me, accompanying Melissa to a follow-up appointment.

I called him seven times. He declined every call. In the end, my seven-month-old baby suffocated.

Even in a wheelchair, I went to demand an explanation. However, outside the hospital room, I heard Melissa crying.

"Back then, you all agreed I should pretend to have amnesia. I'll never randomly decline calls for Charles again. I just want to stay by your side for three more months."

There was a moment of silence. Then, Charles and the others agreed.

At that moment, I was not angry. I just felt something inside me turn completely empty. I turned around and accepted my adoptive parents' request to return to Nebula City. This time, I would give these people what they wanted.

Charles Smith's phone rang. It was the special ringtone he had set just for Melissa Jones. He picked up instantly, a bright smile tugging at his lips.

"Melissa, just cooperate with the checkup, okay? I'll be right back to keep you company."

When it came to my calls for help, he had declined them again and again. The life-and-death struggle in the delivery room had already drained me of any strength to argue or cry. All I felt then was numb.

Charles turned to me and said, "I'll have the housekeeper come over to take care of you. I only asked Melissa for half an hour off, using work as an excuse."

To visit me, his wife who had just lost our child, he still needed to ask Melissa for permission. His attitude cut into my heart like shards of glass. I could not even find the words to comfort myself anymore.

When his hand brushed against my pale face, he seemed to hesitate. He sat back down beside me and spoke softly, "I'll wait until you fall asleep before I go. I picked your favorite strawberries. You can eat them when you wake up."

His phone rang again. After answering, he looked distracted.

While he wavered, I said first, "If you're busy, you should just go."

Charles let out a breath of relief. "Shirley, you're always so understanding. I'll come back and take care of you once I'm done."

Before I could respond, he was already hurrying out the door.

I looked around the empty hospital room. The only thing that stood out was that basket of bright red strawberries.

A laugh slipped out of me, sudden and out of place, and the tears I had been holding back finally fell, pulling at the stitches that had just been sewn. The pain hit so hard that I curled up on the bed.

After seven years with Charles, he had forgotten that I was allergic to strawberries, and as for the promise he made to come back, no one came, not even once, not until half a month later, when I was discharged.

Meanwhile, Melissa's social media had been set to special notifications on my phone, and she updated almost every day, every post filled with photos of her traveling with Charles.

During the six months she lost her memory, I had to rely on her posts just to know where Charles was.

I casually tapped 'Unfollow'.

This time, I did not call to question him. I calmly finished the payment and discharge procedures.

Instead, it was Charles' grandfather, Nevin Smith, who asked me to come back to the old house for dinner. I also had a document I had left with him a long time ago. Hence, I stopped to buy a gift first.

While the clerk was wrapping it, I picked up a bottle of perfume, then put it back down. I repeated the action three times.

Charles was allergic to perfume, and if he ever caught even a hint of it on me, he would make me shower at least three times. Sometimes, he even used a scent detector on me.

The clerk smiled and told me, "Miss, this is the last bottle left in the country."

I was about to wave it off and say no. However, through the curtain, I overheard two women chatting.

"You went with Charles to celebrate his birthday the day before yesterday. What did you get him?"

"Cologne."

"Wait, what? Isn't he allergic to perfume and cologne? We don't even dare to wear any when we hang out with him."

The other woman sounded surprised. "Really? But every year, I give him a cologne I make myself."

Her friend urged her, "Melissa, hurry up and text him and ask!"

The reply came almost instantly. Melissa smiled, glowing with happiness. "He said he takes allergy medicine in advance every time he sees me."

The mirror on the display shelf reflected a smile on my face that looked worse than crying.

It turned out Charles was capable of compromise. Just not for me.

I pointed at the bottle of perfume. "Please wrap this one up too."