The handwriting on the folder was Wilfred's.
“I will always clear the path for your dreams.”
I stared at that line for a long, long time.
Five years flashed through my mind. Caring for his parents. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. Keeping his house running.
I thought about the envy that cut through me every time I saw my old colleagues burning with passion, pulling late nights to prep their interview scripts.
I laughed out loud.
So he did know how to protect someone's dreams.
I photographed everything, put it all back, and finally made my decision.
“Hey, Selma—I heard the station's looking for someone to go to Central Asia as a war correspondent. Nobody's signed up yet.”
“If you'll have me, I want to go.”
A beat of silence. Then her voice lit up.
“Yes! I always thought it was a waste when you transferred to logistics. This is a rare opportunity. It could be dangerous, but when you come back, your résumé will be a different story entirely.”
“Get yourself ready. You leave in a few days.”
I hung up and started packing.
There was nothing left in this house I cared about.
Except the sweater. The last one my mother ever knitted for me. I was taking that.
She'd knitted me plenty of clothes when I was little. As I grew up, she got older. Her eyes weren't what they used to be.
I didn't want her straining herself, so I told her to stop.
Then I got pregnant, and suddenly I couldn't stand the cold.
She went and knitted me one anyway, in secret. Her eyes were bloodshot from the work, but she just waved me off.
“Homemade is warmer. I picked out the best yarn myself.”
“You fuss over the baby in your belly, and I fuss over mine.”
It hurt and it warmed me at the same time. I never could bring myself to wear it.
But now the sweater was gone.
I remembered the scene when I'd come home. I was about to call Wilfred and ask.
Then I saw Carrie's new Instagram post.
“Hehe, I just said the babies were cold since they were just born, and a certain someone showed up with a sweater~”
“Thanking Daddy on behalf of the babies~ And of course, this Mommy's alteration skills aren't too shabby either.”
So that's where Wilfred had gone. To celebrate a birthday party for her puppies.
In the photo, their heads were pressed together, bodies close.
Each of them cradling three puppies.
And I recognized it instantly.
The little ‘dog outfits’ on those puppies had been cut from my mother's sweater.
When I pushed open the glass door of the pet shop, Wilfred and Carrie were sharing a spoon over a slice of cake.
Wilfred was a severe germaphobe.
At home, his dishes had to be sterilized and stored separately. He never shared utensils at meals.
Once, after I'd spent an entire day cleaning the house, I was so parched I grabbed his cup and took a sip of water.
He didn't say anything at the time. That night, the cup was in the trash.
He'd explained it afterward. Said it was a professional habit from the hospital.
Turns out the habit was selective.
Carrie spotted me and arched a brow, her smile dripping with fake sweetness.
“Oh, Freya! You're here? Wilfred and I have been like this since we were kids, we never really had boundaries. Don't mind it, okay?”
“Wilfred, what did I tell you? She'd never actually go through with the divorce.”
“I mean, a woman whose career tanked, who can only survive off her husband's charity? Without you, how's she going to raise a kid and support her parents? And look, she tracked you all the way here. Clingy much.”
“Sigh. Compared to that, I guess my skin's just too thin. Nothing for me to do but keep being an independent girl boss~”
Wilfred pinched her nose, indulgent and fond.
“Always the clever one, aren't you? Been a little troublemaker since we were kids.”
Then he turned to me, wearing the expression of a man forgiving a child who didn't know better.
