After I Let Him Be With His First Love

The day my husband, Yale Clark, died suddenly of a heart attack, a gentle rain drizzled outside the window. At the memorial, his former students filled the funeral hall, weeping as they said he was a rare, good teacher—kind-hearted and of upright character. I stood in the corner, looking at those faces, both strange and familiar, feeling my throat tighten. After the crowd had scattered, I returned to the old house where we had lived for thirty years, ready to sort through his study. On the bottom shelf of the bookcase, there was a dusty tin box—something he never let me touch. I found a screwdriver and pried open the rusty lock. Inside, there were no valuables, only a stack of unsent letters. I picked up the top letter; the paper was yellowed, but the writing remained clear: "If I could go back twenty years, I would never have married a supermarket cashier just to save a few years of tuition fees." My heart felt as if gripped by a hand, the pain leaving me breathless. In another letter, it read: "Mary Scott is the one I want to spend my life with. We both love literature and understand art, yet I ended up marrying a woman who can't even read a poetry collection." A photo slipped out of the envelope—it was Yale Clark's college graduation picture. In the photo, standing beside him was Mary, wearing a white dress, her smile bending her eyes into crescent moons—that was the "first love" he mentioned countless times. At the bottom of the tin box, I found an old phone—one he had never used in front of me. With trembling hands, I entered Mary's birthday—that was the date he secretly kept in mind every year. The screen lit up, and the photo album was filled with pictures of them together. There was also a property deed with both their names on it, the address overseas. Suddenly, I remembered our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I had prepared a table full of his favorite dishes and raised my glass, saying, "Thank you for being with me." But he frowned and pushed my hand away, saying, "Don't bother with these empty things." It turned out that back then, he had long since built another home with Mary Scott. It turned out my thirty years of sacrifice was, in his eyes, just the self-delusion of a "crude cashier." My vision went dark, and I crashed heavily to the ground. When I opened my eyes again, the 'beep beep' of the supermarket checkout scanner filled my ears, along with Ms. Ruby's voice calling, "Tina Lincoln, what are you standing there for? Yale Clark is still waiting for you at the door!" I looked down, clutching a resignation letter in one hand and an envelope—inside was my salary for the month, all set aside to pay Yale's tuition. The calendar on the wall showed it was the summer of twenty years ago. I took a deep breath and stepped out to the supermarket entrance. Yale Clark wore a shirt faded from too many washes, a hopeful smile lighting his face: "Tina, did you hand in your resignation letter? Did you bring the salary? I'll be reporting to school next week." I tore the resignation letter into pieces right in front of him. The paper scraps drifted down at his feet like broken memories. "As for this tuition, it’s none of my business." I looked at his stunned face and spoke slowly, word by word, "Yale Clark, we're breaking up." The smile on his face vanished instantly, his eyes wide with disbelief: "What did you say? Don't joke with me!" "I'm not joking." I shoved the envelope containing my salary into my pocket. "Your future has nothing to do with me anymore." He stepped forward to grab my hand, but I slipped away. "Tina Lincoln! Are you crazy?" His voice rose, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. "It wasn't easy for me to get into college! Didn't you say you'd always support me? Have you forgotten how you promised me back then?" In my past life, I was bound by his so-called "support" for thirty years. I gave up a promotion to supermarket manager, passed on a training opportunity at headquarters, scrimped and saved to put him through school—only to be met with the word "crude" in return. "I was blind back then. Now I see clearly," he said. I said coldly, "I will never stake my life on you again." After saying that, I turned and walked into the supermarket. Behind me came his furious, desperate shout: "Tina Lincoln! You'll regret this! You're just an uneducated cashier; without me, you're nothing!" I didn't look back. The supermarket's glass door shut behind me, cutting off his voice—and severing the miserable first half of my life. Regret? What I regret most is not seeing his true face twenty years ago. But now, there's still time to set things right.