Her name is Lin Huaiyan. The name given by my grandpa - holding an inkstone with a heart and grinding with a heart, saying that people have to grind out ink in suffering.
She believed it. From a village in the city to a doctorate in psychology, she sharpened herself into a knife.
In the winter when she was twenty-three years old, she was working in a cafe and met a man who opened the door at 2:45 every afternoon. He drinks hot Americano, sits in a corner, and secretly takes photos while watching her write her essay.
Later she became Mrs. Lu. Later she discovered that the most gentle cage in the world was built of love. She escaped.
Three years after the divorce, my daughter was hospitalized with a high fever. He opened the door and came in, holding a boy who looked exactly like him.
"Is this your daughter?"
"It has nothing to do with you."
He stood there for four seconds, and then exposed her in every detail: You don't have a husband, you didn't go back to Melbourne, you lied to me.
"Lin Huaiyan," he called her by her real name, "I'm downstairs. Whenever you want to talk, I'll be there."
What he didn't know was that there was a photo of him secretly taking her sleeping seven years ago in her phone, which she had never deleted.
He didn't know that she was pregnant on the day of the divorce. My daughter is five and a half years old this year.
He didn't even know that he adopted the boy and named him Lu Yanzhou - the same name as him.
Just because the child huddled in the corner and built blocks by himself looked like her.
He waited for her for seven years. She knows nothing.
