My Daughter's 100 Day Birthday Banquet

My name is Tim Lincoln, and I'm thirty years old. My wife is Sarah Scott. We've been married for three years, and our daughter, Nancy Lincoln, just turned three months old. Sarah returned to work on the thirty-fifth day after giving birth. I remember that early morning, before dawn, she packed her luggage quietly, kissed our daughter on the forehead, and left the house without saying a word to me. I thought she just had to handle some urgent work and would be back in at most two or three days. But I never expected that once she left, it was like she took root in the company. Out of thirty days in a month, she worked overtime twenty-nine days. On the remaining day, she dragged her tired body back home late at night. Nancy was at the age where she needed constant feeding. She would wake up three or four times a night, and every time, I would hold her to soothe her, make milk powder, and change diapers, never daring to slack off even a little. It's not that I didn't complain, but every time the words reached my lips, I'd see the red bloodshot in her eyes and swallow them back. I told myself that she was doing this for our family, for Nancy to have a better life. I took on all the household chores: buying groceries, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the baby. I kept the house in perfect order, hoping that she could have less pressure and come home earlier. But her return got later and later. Sometimes I'd wait for her until one or two in the morning. When she came back, she would only take a quick shower and fall asleep in the guest room, not even having time to hold our daughter. I tried to communicate with her, asking if she could reduce her workload a bit to spend more time with the baby. She would always frown and cut me off, saying I didn't understand her difficulties. This was a crucial period for her career advancement, and she couldn't afford to slack off. "Tim, I work so hard for this family, okay?" She would say this every time, her tone full of impatience. Looking at her cold face, I felt like something was blocking my chest, making it hard to breathe. I thought that if I just endured a little longer, once she got through this busy period, everything would get better. Until that afternoon, I went to pick her up from downstairs of her company, wanting to give her a surprise. From a distance, I saw her walking with a man, holding several cups of milk tea in her hand, smiling brightly. I knew that man; he was her assistant, Harry Jones. They walked into the company side by side, and she even patted Harry on the shoulder proactively, looking very intimate. I stood there, the sun shining brightly, but I felt cold all over. She had time to buy milk tea for her colleagues and chat happily with her assistant, but she didn't have time to go home to see her hungry daughter or talk to me for a while.