He had clawed his way out of poverty with enormous difficulty. Of course, he did not want to fall back down and never climb out again.
But knowing all of this did not make the sting any less sharp.
My heart felt as if it were being sliced open, layer by layer, with a kitchen knife dipped in lemon juice.
For ten years, I had given Chris everything, heart, soul, and body.
To save more money for him, I wore the same clothes for a decade.
I woke before dawn and slept past midnight, surviving on five hours of rest a day.
At my lowest, I collapsed in the rice fields and vomited blood.
Even when the doctor warned I would die if I kept pushing myself, I never once told Chris I was tired.
I sincerely believed that eventually, all my sacrifices would be rewarded. I imagined him standing before me at a special ceremony, placing a wedding ring on my finger, and gazing at me with steadfast devotion.
But I had forgotten something essential:
Love’s ending is often simply that. An ending.
My throat burned as if it had been soaked in acid, and even breathing hurt.
I forced my trembling hands to steady and said coldly, “If anyone asks, just say I am your housekeeper.”
Chris stared at me in shock.