My Name Over Your Scars

My name is Mona Yeager. The first time I truly looked at the scar on Chip Johnson's wrist was three months after we married. That day, he had just finished showering; water droplets trailed from the tips of his hair onto his collarbone. As I handed him a towel, my hand inadvertently brushed his wrist, and he flinched instinctively. I lifted my eyes to him; his gaze flickered away for half a second, yet he still extended his arm toward me. The scar was deep, resembling a menacing centipede coiled on the inside of his wrist. Its color was lighter than the surrounding skin, clearly aged. "How did it happen?" I asked softly. My fingertips gently brushed the edge of the scar, feeling the uneven texture of the skin. Chip Johnson remained silent for a long time, so long that I thought he would not answer. Then he spoke, his voice carrying a faint, barely perceptible hoarseness: "It happened accidentally five years ago." I did not press further, but later, from his friends, I still learned the truth. That scar was left from his suicide attempt. Five years ago, his first love, Alicia Sue, suddenly proposed a breakup without any warning. The next day, she boarded a plane abroad, cutting off all contact. Chip Johnson was like a madman then, searching every place they had been, yet he found no trace of Alicia Sue. In despair, he slashed his own wrist. Fortunately, a friend found him in time and rushed him to the hospital for emergency treatment, saving his life. When I heard these words, I could not quite name the feeling—part sorrow, part inexplicable dread. My marriage to Chip Johnson carried the label of a business marriage from the very beginning. He was the heir to the Johnson Group, and I was the sole daughter of the Yeager Group. Our union was a transaction long settled by both families, forged for the cooperation of two companies and to solidify our mutual standing. On our wedding day, he wore a crisp suit, his face devoid of expression; when he slipped the ring onto my finger, his hand betrayed a slight tremor. I knew his heart belonged to another, yet I still nurtured a faint hope that the tale of "marriage before love" might play out between us. The days that followed our marriage were uneventful, yet steady. Chip Johnson was not unkind to me; he remembered my birthday and gave me gifts on festivals. Although those gifts were clearly handpicked by his assistant, they lacked much of his own sentiment. We slept in separate rooms; he said he was a light sleeper and feared disturbing me. I did not object, but in truth, I knew he was simply not yet ready to accept me. The following spring, I discovered that I was pregnant. When I stood before Chip Johnson holding the prenatal examination report, he was stunned for a long while. Then he reached out and gently touched my belly; for the first time, his eyes held emotions beyond aloofness—a mixture of surprise and a trace of nervousness. "Really?" He asked, his voice tinged with agitation. I nodded, and as I watched the gentle curve rising at the corners of his mouth, my heart swelled with renewed hope. The days of pregnancy were far from easy, especially in the later stages; my belly grew heavier, my movements more cumbersome, and often at night, leg cramps pained me so much that I could not sleep. Chip Johnson seemed changed; he no longer slept apart, massaging my legs every night, researching suitable foods for pregnancy in advance, and personally preparing them for me. One night, when I was thirsty and about to get out of bed for water, Chip Johnson awoke, rubbed his eyes, asked what was wrong, and then rose to the kitchen to pour me some warm honey water. At that moment, I felt that perhaps we could truly walk this path together. But fate always seems to enjoy playing tricks on me. On the day of delivery, I suffered a difficult labor. The doctor held the consent form for Chip Johnson to sign. When asked whether to save the mother or the child, he almost immediately said, "Save the mother; you must save Mona Yeager."