When he was seven years old, he stood at the gate of the compound. From dawn to dusk, the sentry changed two shifts, the street lights came on, and the old man selling roasted sweet potatoes at the entrance of the alley closed his stall. He picked at the warped paint on the iron door, his fingernails filled with rust. Mother said before going out, "Mom will be back soon."
Then he stopped waiting. Not waiting for people to come home, not waiting for the candles on the birthday cake to be lit, not waiting for the "be right back" people to actually turn around.
When she was seventeen, she smiled and said, "Let's go to the same university." He made a bet in his mind. At twenty, she said "I like you" and he took the gamble again. At the age of twenty-three, she said "I will change" and he made another bet. He bet his whole life on her, betting that one day she would put him first.
On that birthday, she left him for another man. That afternoon, she handed over the company's core project to the person who hurt him. That evening, she sat across from him, speaking in the same tone as if she was discussing where to eat on the weekend, saying that she wanted to give birth to a child for someone else. He staked his youth, staked his sincerity, and handed over his dignity and bottom line. All I got back was "next time".
It wasn't until he died in the river that she knew that he had been waiting for her all her life, and she owed him her whole life. The deepest regret in the world is not missing it, but what could have been. I could have hugged him tightly when he said I was in pain, I could have held his hand when he turned around, I could have walked towards him unswervingly when I was seventeen years old.
If I had to do it again.
