During the National Day holiday, I went to my son's home to cook and saw that photo of three generations together.
In the picture, my grandson was still an infant, and the family of five looked happy and complete, the envy of everyone.
But the woman standing beside my husband, Liang Zhenzhou, wasn't me. It was his first love, Ding Xiang.
The photos covered the floor, documenting their lives together, from youthful black hair to gray, traveling far and wide over half a lifetime.
On the cover, Liang Zhenzhou had written in pen: If love between two people lasts, what does it matter if they cannot be together every day?
As I watched the sun disappear outside the window, I realized I was already fifty-three, and had been trapped in this marriage for far too long.
