Chapter 5: Letting Go of Ghosts

I locked my phone and sighed, closing my eyes. The room was suddenly too small, the air thick with the imagined smell of old soup and the faint echo of laughter that wasn’t mine.

Actually, I’ve met Ethan’s ex-wife. It was on the 100th day of me and Ethan being together. He took me out for dinner. Halfway through, his ex-wife came over to say hello. Maybe she just happened to be there and ran into us.

She was even more delicate in person than in photos, but her presence was commanding. She stood at our table, arms crossed, looking down slightly because she was standing. She smiled, scanning me up and down, making me uneasy. I glanced at Ethan, but she’d already turned to him and said, “Mom wants you to come to dinner this week.”

His hand froze. I saw his knuckles white as he gripped his utensils, but his face stayed expressionless. He said, “Tell Mom I’m not coming. Grace, we’re already divorced. I’ve kept up this act with you for over three years. I’m tired now. Please tell your parents about our divorce as soon as possible.” He paused, then added, “I’m preparing to start a new life, Grace. We should both move on.”

She didn’t seem to care, as if she hadn’t heard him. She gave a little laugh, looked me up and down again, then said, “Okay, you two enjoy your date. I’ll find you later.”

As if I didn’t exist. The chill in her words made me shiver, even as I tried to hold my head high.

After she left, Ethan just sat there, frozen, a chill radiating from him. He seemed to be struggling to keep his emotions in check. I sat awkwardly, not knowing what to say, until he finally calmed down, looked up at me with an apologetic smile, and said, “Sorry, I didn’t expect to run into her. Sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

I shook my head, wanting to ask something, but held back. The meal ended quickly and awkwardly.

I picked up my phone and kept reading, then saw her pregnancy posts.

Ethan has a son, now seven, nicknamed Crabby. It’s a strange name. After reading her Instagram, I learned that besides being a Cancer, the other reason was that during her pregnancy she craved crab legs, but since seafood is off-limits for pregnant women, every time she wanted them, Ethan would dip a bit of crab meat for her to taste.

So their son’s nickname is Crabby.

I’ve met him—a prematurely mature boy. Ethan tried to let me get along with him. It was at the pool—one of those suburban country club pools, the scent of chlorine thick in the air, kids’ laughter echoing off the concrete. He’s afraid of water, and Ethan kept trying to teach him to swim. I’m a good swimmer, so I squatted beside him and asked gently, “Do you want me to teach you?”

He glanced at me but said nothing. Children are always sensitive to their parents’ relationships, but he was polite and didn’t resist me, always cooperative.

Later, I tried letting him swim without his float ring—a necessary step. I was watching closely; nothing could have happened. But as soon as I took the ring away, he panicked and flailed, and I quickly scooped him up, comforting him. He struggled and burst into tears.

When Ethan came over to take him, I was almost in tears myself. I’d been so careful, not because I wanted to marry into a wealthy family, but because I loved Ethan and hoped those he cared about could accept me.

But that was wishful thinking. Crabby lay on his father’s shoulder, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe. I tried to explain, “I was right there, nothing would have happened.”

Ethan patiently comforted Crabby, not hearing my explanation. Guilt prickled at my skin, a heavy knot settling in my stomach, as if I’d failed some unspoken test.

After that, I didn’t want to say anything more. The silence at the poolside echoed in my mind for days.