My husband was as aloof as a chrysanthemum, above petty squabbles.
To protect him, I forced myself to become a shrew.
When someone took his chance to study abroad, I argued with the school leaders until I got it back. He said I’d shamed educated people everywhere.
He never asked people to return the things he lent them, so I made them give them back. He said I was petty.
He earned a good reputation, while I became a shrew.
I always thought he understood me. We spent sixty years together.
Then, a month after I died, he married his first love.
At the wedding, my husband spoke with deep emotion.
“Being with someone who shares your interests makes even a moment feel eternal. Every moment with someone you don’t love is agony.”
Our son sighed, too.
“If only Mom were gone sooner. Then Dad could have had a happy marriage, and I could have had a gentle mother.”
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I’d fought to secure my husband’s chance to study abroad.
This time, I won’t be the shrew who sticks her neck out. Let’s see how long he can keep playing the aloof gentleman.
