Once home, I busied myself with preparing dishes. Grandma had always loved the ratatouille I made.
Henry finally returned, wrapping me in an embrace with an apologetic expression, explaining that his absence was due to the overwhelming demands of his company.
Was he busy at work or was he busy with the women?
As he spoke, a familiar, inferior scent of sunflowers filled the air, sending a chill down my spine. It was the favorite scent of his first lover. Whenever I brought home a bouquet of sunflowers, he would say, "Wendy, don't be jealous. She's gone."
Indeed, she had passed away. She was a remarkable young woman. I heard she stayed behind during the earthquake evacuation to ensure all the children were safe, tragically losing her life under the rubble.
I never once considered myself in competition with that girl. My fondness for sunflowers was purely my own, stemming from a place of genuine affection.
But as I watched Henry struggle to hold back his tears, I swallowed my own words and abandoned sunflowers as my favorite flower. I chose tulips instead.
But now he let Melissa use sunflower-scented perfume. I pushed him away..
He was supposed to feel guilty for me, but also for the girl.