Luc Tram Chau’s hand stopped on the doorknob.

“What did you say?”

I looked at him calmly.

“I said I won’t eat another bite of your family’s food.”

He turned around.

“Nghien Thu, don’t use divorce-like language just because you’re grieving.”

Interesting.

I hadn’t even mentioned divorce.

Perhaps somewhere inside him, he already knew.

I walked into the bedroom and pulled out a suitcase.

His expression finally changed.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

“This is your home.”

“No.”

I folded my clothes.

“This is the Luc family’s house. Your mother reminded me of that often enough.”

He grabbed my wrist.

“Enough.”

I looked at his hand.

“Let go.”

Perhaps it was something in my eyes, because he released me immediately.

His voice softened.

“I know today was difficult.”

“You don’t know anything about today.”

“I stayed at the funeral hall all night.”

“You keep saying that like it bought you permission to abandon me at the cemetery.”

His jaw tightened.

“Tri Y’s wedding had an emergency.”

“My mother’s funeral was not an emergency?”

“She was already dead!”

The room went silent.

Luc Tram Chau froze.

I did too.

Then, strangely, I felt nothing.

No anger.

No pain.

Just clarity.

I nodded.

“Yes.”

He stepped toward me.

“Nghien Thu, I didn’t mean—”

“She was already dead.”

I repeated his words.

“So she couldn’t complain when you made her funeral convoy reverse ten kilometers.”

His face whitened.

“She couldn’t ask why my husband was lifting another woman’s wedding dress while her daughter signed burial papers alone.”

I closed the suitcase.

“And she couldn’t ask why you promised to pay for her funeral, then left me at the cemetery with three thousand yuan because Tham Tri Y’s wedding was more important.”

Luc Tram Chau stared at me.

“You didn’t have enough money?”

I almost laughed.

He hadn’t even noticed.

“I sent you the bill.”

“I was busy.”

“Exactly.”

He reached for his phone.

“How much? I’ll transfer it now.”

“No need.”

“Nghien Thu—”

“My mother has already been buried.”

I looked directly at him.

“Your money is late too.”

I left that evening.

Three days later, I sent him the divorce agreement.

His response arrived within one minute.

Stop making trouble.

Five minutes later:

Come home. We’ll talk.

Then:

I already apologized about the funeral.

Except he hadn’t.

Not once.

He had explained.

Defended.

Justified.

But never apologized.

I didn’t answer.

The next morning, Tham Tri Y called me.

I nearly declined.

Then curiosity won.

“Nghien Thu.”

Her voice was gentle.

“I heard you and Tram Chau argued because of my wedding.”

“Not because of your wedding.”

She paused.

“I really didn’t mean to affect Auntie’s funeral.”

“But you did.”

“I was frightened. My grandmother always said wedding and funeral convoys shouldn’t meet. Tram Chau knew that.”

“So my dead mother had to reverse ten kilometers for you.”

Silence.

Then she sighed.

“You’ve always misunderstood our relationship.”

I smiled.

“What relationship?”

“Tram Chau and I grew up together. He’s like family.”

“Good.”

She seemed surprised.

“You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be?”

I looked at the divorce agreement.

“After the divorce, whatever relationship you have with him won’t concern me.”

Her breathing changed.

“You’re divorcing him?”

“Yes.”

“Because of one road?”

“No.”

I answered quietly.

“Because after three years, I finally understood which direction that road had always been going.”

I hung up.

The divorce wasn’t easy.

Luc Tram Chau refused to sign.

He came to my temporary apartment.

Waited outside my workplace.

Sent flowers.

Sent money.

Even transferred the entire funeral expense into my account.

I returned every yuan.

Then his mother came.

She placed a bank card on the table.

“There are 500,000 yuan here.”

I looked at it.

“What for?”

“Take it and stop talking about divorce.”

I laughed.

She frowned.

“What’s funny?”

“Your son couldn’t spare one hour to bury my mother, and you think half a million yuan can buy me back?”

Her face darkened.

“Don’t be ungrateful.”

I pushed the card toward her.

“Keep it.”

She stood angrily.

“You married into the Luc family with nothing.”

I looked at her.

“And I’m leaving with nothing.”

That silenced her.

“I don’t want your house, your money, your son’s company shares or the jewelry you gave me.”

I opened the door.

“I only want my name back.”

A month later, Luc Tram Chau finally appeared at mediation.

He looked exhausted.

For the first time since I’d known him, his shirt wasn’t perfectly ironed.

He sat across from me.

“Did you ever love me?”

I looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Then how can you end three years over one day?”

“One day?”

I opened my phone.

There were photographs I had once been too embarrassed to mention.

My birthday dinner two years earlier.

An empty chair opposite me.

That night, Tri Y’s car had broken down.

Luc went to help.

Our anniversary.

He left halfway through because Tri Y was drunk after a breakup.

The day my mother entered the hospital.

He promised to come.

Tri Y had a panic attack, so he didn’t.

Each incident had an explanation.

Each explanation sounded reasonable by itself.

Together, they formed my marriage.

I placed the phone down.

“My mother’s funeral wasn’t the first time you chose her.”

His lips parted.

“It was simply the first time there could never be another chance to make it up.”

He lowered his head.

After a long silence, he whispered:

“Tri Y is married now.”

I stared at him.

He actually thought that mattered.

“So?”

“There won’t be these problems anymore.”

“Luc Tram Chau.”

I almost felt sorry for him.

“The problem was never whether she wanted you.”

He looked up.

“It was that whenever she needed something, you made me the person who had to sacrifice.”

His eyes reddened.

“I can change.”

“Maybe.”

“Then give me a chance.”

“No.”

The answer came easily.

Because I’d already given him chances.

I just hadn’t called them that.

Every forgotten dinner.

Every abandoned promise.

Every time I swallowed my discomfort so he wouldn’t accuse me of jealousy.

Those had all been chances.

He signed the divorce papers that afternoon. Pasted markdown

Three months later, I returned to my mother’s grave.

Spring had arrived.

I brought the flowers she liked and sat beside the tombstone for nearly an hour.

“Mom,” I whispered, “I’m divorced.”

The wind moved softly through the trees.

I smiled.

“You probably knew I would be.”

Footsteps sounded behind me.

For one foolish second, I thought it might be Luc Tram Chau.

It wasn’t.

It was the cemetery manager.

He recognized me.

“Miss Tham?”

“Yes?”

“There was a gentleman here yesterday.”

My fingers paused over the flowers.

“He stayed for a long time.”

I didn’t need to ask who.

The manager handed me an envelope.

I opened it after he left.

There was no plea for reconciliation.

No excuses.

Only a short letter.

Nghien Thu,

I finally came to finish the road I promised to walk.

I know it was too late.

I also know your mother cannot forgive me on your behalf, and I have no right to ask you to.

That day, I thought ten kilometers didn’t matter.

Now I understand it wasn’t ten kilometers.

It was the distance between the husband I promised to be and the man I actually became.

I’m sorry.

Luc Tram Chau.

I read it twice.

Then folded it carefully.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t call him.

Some apologies deserve to be accepted without becoming invitations back into your life.

I placed the letter beside my mother’s flowers for a moment.

Then I took it with me when I left.

At the cemetery gate, I looked back once.

The day my mother was buried, I had stood there almost penniless, waiting for a husband who never came because another woman’s wedding couldn’t wait. He had even promised beforehand that he would accompany my mother on her final journey. Pasted markdown

For months, I thought that was the cruelest memory of my life.

Later, I understood it differently.

My mother gave me one final lesson on the day she left.

The people who truly love you don’t ask your grief to move aside for someone else’s happiness.

And when Luc Tram Chau forced my mother’s funeral procession to reverse ten kilometers for Tham Tri Y’s wedding car, he thought he was only changing the route.

He didn’t realize he had changed mine too.

My mother continued toward her resting place.

Tham Tri Y continued toward her marriage.

And I—

I finally took the road that led away from him.