The Secret in the Sausage

At dinner, the atmosphere around the table was icy cold. Mom pushed at the rice in her bowl, but her eyes kept flicking toward Dad. I poked at the greens on my plate, and it felt as if the air itself had frozen. "Your dad's been acting strange lately, like he's miles away from everything." Mom put down her chopsticks, her voice low but clear enough for Dad and me to hear. Dad froze, and the braised pork on his chopsticks dropped back onto the plate with a soft clink. He didn't look at Mom and mumbled, "There's just been a lot going on at the company. I'm exhausted." Mom didn't push any further, only sighed softly. That sigh pierced my heart like a tiny, sharp needle. At night, I got up to go to the bathroom. Passing through the living room, I noticed a faint light on the balcony. I quietly walked over and saw Dad standing on the balcony with his back to me, holding a cell phone. The glow from the screen lit his face; I could see his brows furrowed as his fingers tapped rapidly. I didn't know who he was texting, only that after sending the message, his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as if waiting for a reply. One minute, two minutes, five minutes... the screen never lit up. Dad, frustrated, scratched his head, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. Smoke drifted across the balcony, making me cough without meaning to. Dad spun around suddenly, and when he saw me, a flicker of panic flashed in his eyes. He quickly shoved his cell phone into his pocket and stubbed out the cigarette. "Freya, why aren't you asleep yet?" His voice sounded a little unnatural. "I'm going to the bathroom." I kept my head down, afraid to meet his eyes, and hurried past. Back in my room, I lay on the bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The balcony light stayed on, and I could hear Dad coughing now and then, along with the sound of cigarette butts hitting the floor. That night, Dad stayed on the balcony for a long time; the smell of smoke drifted into my room and didn't clear until dawn. The next morning, I stepped out of my room with dark circles under my eyes. Mom had already come back from grocery shopping, carrying several large bags filled with sausage. "Mom, why did you buy so much sausage?" I asked, surprised. "Isn't your dad fond of it? I bought extra so I can make it for him at every meal." Mom smiled, but the smile looked somewhat forced. From that day on, there was sausage at every family meal. Fried sausage, stir-fried sausage, steamed sausage—even sausage porridge for breakfast. The whole house was filled with the smell of sausage. At first, it was pleasant, but after two or three days, just seeing the sausage made me nauseous. That evening at dinner, Mom brought out yet another plate of stir-fried sausage. I forced myself to pick up a piece and put it in my mouth, but after just two bites, I felt something hard inside. I frowned and spat it out; when I looked at it in my palm, my heart instantly sank. It was half an earring, silver, still coated with the sausage's grease.