To save the woman he had always loved, my anesthesiologist husband deliberately increased the dosage for a car-crash victim, giving her the chance to get a new heart. After Song Qingyan's surgery, he cared for her devotedly and celebrated her new lease on life. Only after she recovered did he remember to contact me. “Honey, it’s been three months. You must be over your anger by now, right? Book a flight home tomorrow, okay? I’ll pick you up at the airport.” But I could never come back. I had died on his operating table long ago.
