When she was thirty years old, Su Qing saw two lines on the pregnancy test stick in the bathroom. After waiting for three hours, her husband found nothing abnormal.
On the third wedding anniversary, he forgot to take additional wedding photos. Pregnancy, miscarriage, going to the hospital alone—she carried it all on her own. When she finally said, "Our child is gone," the first thing he asked was: "Why didn't you tell me?"
She wanted to tell him: because you are not here. Your body is there, but your mind is not. You're there, but you're not there.
A director of an Internet company who is too rational to speak "human language", and a graphic designer who is too emotional to swallow all the grievances. What is separated between them is not a third party, not cheating, not lack of love - it is silence. It's the kind of distance where you know the other person is there, but you can't reach them.
Wang Jianguo's appearance opened the first crack, and Chen Mo's news opened the second. When her thirteen-year-old daughter sat by the river and said, "You can touch the wind, Mom, it's better than people." Su Qing finally understood that the cracks were never caused by one person. It was folded by two people together.
This is the story of a marriage that spans twenty years. From the two lines on the pregnancy test stick to the signature at the divorce registration office; from a plate of fried tomatoes with scrambled eggs to a pomegranate tree full of red lanterns.
They have quarreled, been cold, escaped, and collapsed. They learned to have a ten-minute conversation, learned to say "I'm scared", and learned to send "I'm thinking of you" when the other person is not around.
In the end they didn't get together. But they taught their daughter one thing -
The rift is not the end. The crack is where the light comes in.
