The paper kitten remained in the boy’s small hands.

For a moment, I almost reached out to take it back.

Not because I wanted it.

But because seeing him hold it reminded me of something I had spent years trying to forget.

A child.

A tiny life that had existed inside me.

A child who had never opened his eyes.

The boy looked at the paper kitten carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Then he smiled.

—Thank you.

Those two simple words made my fingers tremble.

Because once, I had imagined another child standing in front of me like this.

A child who would call me mother.

A child who would hold my hand.

A child who would run toward me with a smile.

But that future disappeared on a cold hospital floor.

I turned away.

—You should go back to your parents.

The boy tilted his head.

—Are you angry with me?

I froze.

The question was innocent.

Too innocent.

I looked at him.

And for the first time, I saw not Giang Tri’s son.

Just a child.

A child who knew nothing about the pain between adults.

—No.

My voice softened slightly.

—I’m not angry with you.

The boy seemed relieved.

He held the paper kitten against his chest.

Then a woman’s voice suddenly came from behind.

—Achen!

The woman from the morning appeared at the end of the street.

Her expression changed when she saw the boy standing beside me.

She quickly walked over.

—I’m sorry. He likes wandering around whenever he sees something interesting.

I shook my head.

—It’s fine.

The woman looked at the paper kitten in his hand.

—Did you make this?

I nodded.

She smiled politely.

—It’s beautiful.

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know how to respond to kindness from someone who unknowingly occupied the place where my pain began.

Then footsteps approached.

Slow.

Familiar.

My entire body became stiff.

I didn’t need to turn around.

I knew who it was.

Giang Tri.

—Achen.

His voice was deeper than I remembered.

The boy immediately ran toward him.

—Dad, look! She made this for me.

Dad.

That word pierced through me.

Because once, I had dreamed of hearing Giang Tri called that.

I had imagined him holding our child.

I had imagined his cold face becoming gentle.

But those dreams belonged to another woman.

Another family.

Giang Tri looked at the paper kitten.

Then his eyes moved toward me.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

His expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Like someone who had suddenly seen a ghost.

—You…

I calmly looked away.

—It’s been a long time.

My voice was polite.

Too polite.

That seemed to hurt him more than anger would have.

Because anger meant I still cared.

Politeness meant I had already moved him outside my world.

The woman beside him looked between us.

Then she asked quietly:

—You know each other?

Before Giang Tri could answer, I spoke.

—An old acquaintance.

Old acquaintance.

Two words.

They reduced years of marriage into something meaningless.

But wasn’t that what he had done?

The day he watched me disappear into the operating room.

The day he never came to see me after losing our child.

The day he received my divorce agreement and never chased after me.

He had already decided I was just someone from his past.

So why couldn’t I do the same?

The boy suddenly tugged at Giang Tri’s sleeve.

—Dad, she is really good at making things.

Giang Tri looked at me.

His eyes became complicated.

—You always liked doing this.

I was surprised.

I didn’t expect him to remember.

Paper cutting.

A small hobby I had loved since childhood.

Something I did when I was happy.

Something I did when I was sad.

Something he once sat beside me and watched for hours.

But remembering was not the same as caring.

Many people remember things they lost only after they lose them.

—I have to go.

I picked up my bag.

The boy looked disappointed.

—Will you make another kitten tomorrow?

I stopped.

For a second, I almost answered yes.

The old me would have.

The old me would have smiled and promised.

But I wasn’t that woman anymore.

—Maybe.

I gave the safest answer.

Then I walked away.

I didn’t look back.

Not when I heard the boy asking his father who I was.

Not when I heard the silence that followed.

Not when I felt Giang Tri’s eyes following me.

Because I had spent too many years looking back at a man who never turned around.

That night, I returned to my small house near the edge of town.

It was simple.

A wooden table.

A small garden.

A room full of paper and tools.

Nothing like the mansion where I once lived.

But here, every corner belonged to me.

No one told me what to do.

No one ignored my tears.

No one made me beg to be loved.

I sat by the window and opened an old box.

Inside were the last things I had kept.

The ultrasound picture.

A tiny pair of socks.

And a piece of paper where I had written a name.

A name no one ever called.

My fingers touched the paper.

And for the first time in many years, I cried.

Not because I missed Giang Tri.

I cried because I missed the child I never got to meet.

The next morning, there was a knock at my door.

I opened it.

And froze.

Giang Tri stood outside.

Alone.

His usual calm expression was gone.

For the first time, he looked like someone who didn’t know what to do.

—We need to talk.

I held the door but didn’t invite him in.

—About what?

His eyes lowered.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he whispered:

—About the child.

My hand tightened around the door.

A cold feeling spread through my chest.

Because after all these years…

The man who never came to the hospital.

The man who never asked if I survived.

The man who let me leave empty-handed.

Finally wanted to talk about the child we lost.

And I didn’t know whether I wanted to hear his reason…

Or whether the truth would hurt even more.