"Madame."
"Good morning, madame."
"Madame."
"Madame, are you going out?"
I respond to these greetings every early morning as I prepare to leave this house. Today, I have an appointment to visit my dear son, George Rockwell. Landry gave birth to baby George just as I received that dreadful news from the front lines. I thought I wouldn't be able to bear this heavy burden, and for a moment, I truly believed I couldn't carry on. It was Landry who helped me through all that time. The tranquility of her small family, along with baby George, acted as a lifebuoy, supporting this fragile existence.
Landry and I sit together on her balcony, sipping hot milk tea and watching the world below. It's been a while since I've felt comfortable enjoying tea like this, and now I realize that it's been a long time since I've touched a cup of tea. I just can't bring myself to drink bitter tea anymore.
"How's your family?" Landry asks, her expression already anticipating the answer.
"I've torn up the divorce papers for the fifth time," I burst into laughter. "But I still have plenty left."
"Who tore them? Your husband?" Landry asks in surprise.
"No," I shake my head. "It's Mrs. Rose. She laughed gleefully as she shredded my livelihood."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Augustin hasn't taken any action?" Landry inquires.
"No, does he ever have any independent thoughts?" I shake my head wearily. "If he did, we might still be living together."
We fall silent, both pausing for a moment to catch our breaths. The tea cups are only half full now. New Year's is just a few days away, but why does the emotion feel so tiresome? The New Year's arrival isn't timely. No amount of celebration can bring a fallen soldier back to life. Even though the Accord faction emerged victorious, within the nation's heart, the land and its people are still fractured. All that people can see is division, pain, and resentment. How could they wage war and wield guns with a justification of "peace and independence"? How could they raise a toast with the words "peace" while blood flows beneath their feet, mixed with expensive and luxurious wine? Each day, my heart aches for him, his smile, his eyes as deep and blue as the ocean. I remember the beard that I once politely criticized during our first meeting. I remember the warmth of his embrace and the masculine scent that lingered on my body every time we touched. All those memories have suddenly turned into recollections. Now I can only dream of seeing him again. But in dreams, how can I feel those things?
George's cries suddenly pull us back to reality. Landry and I quickly step over to the wooden crib where the baby is fussing after waking up. George must be hungry, so Landry immediately adjusts her clothing to nurse him. I don't know what to do, so I just stand and watch, feeling an incredibly peaceful sensation. The baby immediately stops crying as soon as he reaches his mother's breast. In moments like these, a whimsical desire for another child awakens within me. I love Francine, and I feel truly blessed to have her as my daughter. If there were another child now, I wonder how much happier I would feel. I hope for a baby boy, so our home will be even fuller. Visiting Landry and George was truly the right decision for me. Whenever I feel stuck or lose motivation, this little family becomes my lifeline.
Landry gently pats baby George's back, and following her rhythm, the little one becomes remarkably calm. It's at this moment that Landry looks straight into my eyes and says:
"Fiona, can I say something?"
"I'm listening," I respond to Landry with a hint of skepticism.
"Talk to your husband," Landry speaks slowly but firmly. "If he's as you've described, I believe he might give you the answer you want. Don't avoid it, both of you need to confront each other directly."
I remain silent, without responding. Could it be that Landry is right, that we've been avoiding each other for far too long? Perhaps this apathy inadvertently handed decision-making power to outsiders like my father and mother-in-law. In retrospect, we've never really had a private conversation. Who knows, maybe Augustin is the answer I've long forgotten.