A Lonely Boat Sinks Me Into Ashes Chapter 1

Waking up in the middle of the night, my wife, Evelyn Lee, was crying, pleading with me to let her see that young man one last time. “Just one last goodbye, and I’ll come straight back. Please, I’m begging you, alright?”

In our seven years of marriage, this was only the second time she’d spoken to me with such a cajoling, desperate tone. The first was when I walked in on the young man, disheveled, scrambling out of her office. Afraid I’d make a scene, she’d clutched my hand, pleading: “Darling, I promise I’ll break it off with him. Don’t divorce me, I’d die without you. Can you… can you do that for me?” I gave her a chance. And just as she promised, she devoted herself entirely to our home, becoming the flawless wife everyone admired. Until tonight.

I flicked on the bedside lamp, looked into her eyes, and answered steadily: “Go. Don’t leave yourself with any regrets.” I had none left. I hoped she wouldn’t either.

* * *

The sudden glare stung Evelyn’s eyes, making her instinctively squeeze them shut. The tear tracks on her face became starkly clear, glaringly so. A sudden, bitter laugh caught in my throat; the whole scene felt absurd, almost comical. This was the woman who, in her youth, had shielded me from a thug’s swinging rebar, almost crippling her right arm, and hadn’t even flinched. Now, she was weeping like this, heartbroken over the departure of a twenty-something boy.

Her drunken haze slowly receded as she scrutinized my expression. After a few seconds, she sagged like a spring that had been taut for too long, collapsing onto the bed. “You can yell like you used to, you can slap my face and forbid me from going.”

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t care, just to make me feel guilty, do you?”

“It’s tiresome, Ethan Pierson.”

Her face was a mask of suppressed pain. Ever since Evelyn had "returned to the family," these suffocating silences had become common. Outsiders, oblivious to the undercurrents, would marvel at how our marriage, even after the seven-year itch, seemed to grow stronger. They’d joke about Professor Lee, a distinguished academic, rushing home from work like a lovesick teenager, unable to bear a second away from me. My photo graced her social media profile; my picture adorned her background. She even handed over her phone, allowing me to check it whenever I wished. She was the picture of a devoted, perfect wife.

But only we knew the stormy seas churning beneath that seemingly tranquil surface. After that incident, I became hypersensitive, fragile, and my words grew sharp, laced with bitterness. If she complimented a tie, saying it made me look younger, I’d accuse her: "Is it because you have someone younger, fresher in your heart now, that you’re suddenly complaining I’m old?”

She once took me on a date to a trendy restaurant. Everything was going well until I heard her casually say, “Their signature dish is quite good.” I immediately erupted, demanding to know why she’d brought me to a place she’d already visited with another man.

But I wasn't like this before.