I’d just come home after giving birth when the property management put up a notice: the elevator would be under repair for a month.
My husband complained that it would be inconvenient to get to work and said he’d move into the office.
I endured my postpartum discomfort and didn’t object.
But on the third day, he came home and put his arms around me, sounding aggrieved.
“I can’t sleep without you beside me.”
While doing his laundry, I found a shopping receipt slip out of his pocket.
It said: Pearl rice, 10 kg.
My heart skipped a beat.
We only ever ate Wuchang rice at home. Stranger still, he hadn’t brought any rice home.
Just then, a WeChat message lit up his phone. Without thinking, I tried to unlock it with my fingerprint, but it failed to recognize me.
Through the bathroom door, I asked him, “Honey, why can’t your phone recognize my fingerprint anymore?”
The shower stopped. He cleared his throat. “The phone’s broken. I’ll register your fingerprint again when I get a new one.”
My pale smile was reflected in the frosted glass door.
“Okay.”
At three in the morning, his phone lit up again.
