Part 2The Wayward Husband

After the photoshoot, I told Larry I had to go to the office and went straight to the airport instead.

My destination: that hundred-year-old artisan shop in the charming, rustic town.

Larry had often praised the exquisite craftsmanship of traditional arts. Thanks to him, even though the shop was hidden away in a winding alley, I found it without much trouble.

Rows of tourist photos were displayed by the entrance. In the very center was a picture of Larry, his face radiating a gentle warmth. His eyes held a light I knew all too well, and the large lover’s knot in his hands obscured the lower half of the woman’s face beside him.

Here, a thousand miles away from me, the love overflowing from his heart no longer needed to be hidden.

I stood there for a long time, just looking, a faint smile on my face as tears streamed down my cheeks.

The shopkeeper approached me cautiously. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

I wiped my eyes. “This is my husband,” I said, my voice steady. “He passed away. I wanted to take the photo home as a memento.”

The shopkeeper’s jaw dropped. Then, in a sudden burst of anger, she began pulling down several other decorative knots from the wall and shoving them into my arms. “They wove strands of their own hair into these! Talking some poetic nonsense about being bound together for eternity! Ugh, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that one!”

“They even buried a bottle of wine in my backyard,” she fumed. “Said you have to prepare for a daughter’s future wedding day in advance!”

They had told her they were a married couple, hoping to start a family.

They had rented a pricey little cottage nearby, and every evening they would walk hand-in-hand along the river, always carrying candy to give to the children they met.

They were so at ease, so natural, a perfect picture of a married couple.

…

Before I left town, I made one last stop at the salon where she’d had her hair dyed. The owner remembered them vividly, gushing about how Larry was the most patient man she’d ever seen, not once looking at his phone the entire time they were there.

But on that exact day, I had been burning up with a high fever. I had called him over a dozen times, but there was no answer. He only called back in the middle of the night, saying he’d been busy with work, his phone on silent.

He certainly was busy. Busy pampering his mistress behind his wife’s back.

I took photos and recorded everything, then wiped away my tears and headed home.

The moment he saw me, the kitchen knife in Larry’s hand clattered to the floor. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, and it took him a long moment to choke out my name. “Nikki?”

I ran a hand through my hair and held out the lover’s knot. “Surprised?”

His panic intensified, his voice trembling. “What surprise?”

“The hair color you recommended, the artisan shop… they really are quite nice.” I tilted my head. “Why do you look like that? Did you do something to feel guilty about?”

He instinctively looked down, unable to meet my gaze. But the thumb on his right hand was rubbing furiously against his index finger, the skin already turning red.

I remained silent, my eyes locked on him. I wasn’t sure what I felt more—anger, or a desperate hope for something, anything.

But after a long, tense silence, all he managed was a dry, “I’m tired.”

In that instant, something inside me died.

I dodged the kiss he leaned in for, muttering an excuse about a conference call, and fled the house.

He stood there, stunned for a second, before rushing after me. “At least have something to eat first! I made that savory yam and pork porridge you like…”

My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from him. “Come home early. Tomorrow is Grandma’s eightieth birthday.”

I replied without emotion. “I’m staying at the office tonight.”

A birthday celebration? Of course, I would go.

But first, there was somewhere more important I needed to be.