Uncle Shen, You've Crossed the Line

My son pursued me for two years.

I woke up in his father’s bed.

In the conference room, he calmly presented his proposal.

No one saw what he was doing beneath the tablecloth:

His dress shoe traced my ankle.

In the fire escape after the meeting,

he pinned me against the wall.

“Your legs. You were enjoying that just now, weren’t you?”

I said it was sexual harassment.

He said, “Then call the police.”

His study held the woman he’d loved and lost, locked away for twelve years.

His phone wallpaper was a profile photo of me.

His son pointed at the ginkgo-leaf bookmark and asked,

“Is this Mom’s?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t dare answer.

That night, he carried me out of the hotel lobby.

The moment the elevator doors closed,

his son was standing outside.

Three people.

None of us could go back.

What happened after that?

Later, his son emailed me:

“Thank you for bringing him back to life. It’s something I could never have done in my whole life.”

Later, at an awards ceremony, I told everyone:

“He’s the person I love.”

Later, he knelt before me in front of everyone.

At fifty-three, his hands shook like a nervous kid in his early twenties.

Someone asked me if I regretted it.

Falling in love at twenty with someone I shouldn’t have loved.

Still loving him at thirty.

Still loving him at forty.

He could never tie his tie straight.

He always let the rice porridge boil over.

But every time I worked overtime until midnight,

that cup of warm milk was always waiting on my desk.

And so I loved him for twenty-six years.