The call ended.

I stared at the dark phone screen for several seconds.

Ten years.

For most people, that sounded terrifying.

For me, it sounded peaceful.

No military compound where every corridor reminded me of Tieu Than.

No house where his little shoes were still hidden inside a cabinet because I could not bring myself to throw them away.

And most importantly—

no Giang Tri Le.

The following morning, I was discharged.

He did not come.

His assistant arrived instead.

“Officer Nguyen, Chief Giang has an urgent meeting.”

I nodded.

“I understand.”

The assistant hesitated.

“He asked me to take you home.”

“No need.”

“But your arm—”

“I can manage.”

I returned alone.

The house was exactly as I remembered.

Giang Tri Le’s military coat hung beside the door.

Lam Man’s favorite tea was still in the kitchen because she often visited.

And on the bookshelf was a family photograph taken before Tieu Than died.

I stood there for a long time.

Then I turned the frame facedown.

I packed only one suitcase.

Uniforms.

Documents.

A few books.

Tieu Than’s photograph.

Nothing else.

When Giang Tri Le finally returned after midnight, he found me sitting at the dining table.

A folder lay in front of me.

His steps slowed.

“What is that?”

“The divorce agreement.”

He stared at me.

For several seconds, he seemed not to understand.

Then his expression darkened.

“Stop joking.”

“I’m not.”

He threw his gloves onto the table.

“Because I took Lam Man back to her room yesterday?”

“No.”

“Then because of those nurses gossiping?”

“No.”

His voice rose.

“Then what exactly do you want?”

I looked at him.

Once, I had wanted so many things.

For him to come home.

For him to hold our son more.

For him to stop putting Lam Man first.

For him to believe me when I said her carelessness was becoming dangerous.

Now I wanted only one thing.

Freedom.

“I don’t want anything from you anymore.”

That answer frightened him more than shouting would have.

“Duong Duong.”

He pulled out the chair opposite me.

“Are you still blaming Lam Man for Tieu Than?”

My fingers tightened.

That name still hurt.

But I no longer cried.

“You said you punished her.”

“I did.”

“Three months suspension.”

He frowned.

“She made a mistake during an operation.”

“A mistake?”

I raised my eyes.

“Our son was under her protection.”

His jaw tightened.

“The situation was complicated.”

“I know.”

I had repeated those words so many times that they had lost meaning.

Complicated.

Unexpected.

Operational failure.

Wrong intelligence.

Every phrase made Tieu Than sound like a number on a report.

Giang Tri Le reached for my hand.

I moved it away.

His face changed.

“I told you we can have another child.”

That sentence finished whatever remained between us.

I stood.

“Tieu Than was not a position that needs replacing.”

His face went pale.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s what you keep saying.”

I pushed the agreement toward him.

“Sign it.”

“No.”

“I’ve already submitted the application.”

His eyes sharpened.

“You went behind my back?”

I almost smiled.

“We both know what it means to go behind someone’s back.”

He froze.

Because during the investigation into Tieu Than’s kidnapping, I had discovered something he never knew I knew.

Lam Man had changed the convoy route without authorization.

She wanted to stop briefly at a supply point where she knew Giang Tri Le would be.

She wanted an excuse to see him.

That unnecessary change created the gap the kidnappers exploited.

The military investigation called it negligence.

I called it the moment my son lost his chance to come home.

“I saw the original operation report,” I said.

Giang Tri Le’s expression changed.

“Who gave it to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Duong Duong—”

“You removed two pages before showing me the report.”

Silence.

He slowly stood.

“I was protecting you.”

I laughed for the first time.

“From what?”

“The details.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“You were protecting Lam Man.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why hide her unauthorized route change?”

He had no answer.

That was enough.

The next day, Giang Tri Le went looking for Lam Man.

For the first time, he did not comfort her tears.

He placed the original report on the table.

“Why did you change the route?”

Lam Man’s face turned white.

“I already explained—”

“Tell me again.”

She began crying.

“I only wanted to stop at the western station for ten minutes.”

“Why?”

She remained silent.

He understood.

Because he had been there that morning.

“You changed a security route just to see me?”

“I didn’t know anything would happen!”

Giang Tri Le closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, whatever tenderness he once had for her was gone.

“My son died because you wanted ten minutes of my attention.”

Lam Man collapsed into tears.

But this time, he walked away.

Three days later, a deeper investigation was ordered.

Lam Man lost her position and faced formal disciplinary consequences for concealing the unauthorized change.

But none of it brought Tieu Than back.

And none of it restored my marriage.

On the final day of the divorce mediation period, Giang Tri Le appeared outside the civil affairs office.

He looked as though he had not slept.

“I know everything now.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

“Lam Man admitted it.”

“Good.”

His voice cracked.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there?”

“I was wrong.”

“Yes.”

“I should have believed you.”

“Yes.”

“I should have protected our son.”

For the first time, his voice broke completely.

I looked away.

That was the one sentence capable of hurting me.

But pain was no longer enough to make me stay.

He stepped closer.

“We can start again.”

“No.”

“Duong Duong—”

“I’m leaving.”

He froze.

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

His expression immediately became alert.

Military instinct.

“What assignment?”

I remained silent.

His face slowly changed.

“The Fox Hunt operation?”

I looked at him.

That was answer enough.

His pupils contracted.

“That operation lasts ten years.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t be allowed contact.”

“I know.”

“Even with family.”

“I know.”

His breathing became uneven.

“What about me?”

I held up the newly issued divorce certificate.

“You won’t be family.”

He stared at it.

For a man who had remained calm through combat operations, command crises and national security emergencies, that small red document seemed to leave him helpless.

“When did you decide?”

“The night you carried Lam Man away while I was lying in a hospital bed with a broken arm.”

He closed his eyes.

I continued quietly.

“But I think I actually decided much earlier.”

“When?”

“When Tieu Than died, and I realized I had lost my son while my husband was still trying to protect the person whose negligence helped put him in danger.”

Giang Tri Le stood motionless.

I walked past him.

He did not stop me.

A week later, I boarded a military transport flight under a new operational identity.

Before departure, I turned off my personal phone for the last time.

There were forty-seven missed calls from Giang Tri Le.

I deleted none of them.

I simply powered the phone down.

Ten years later, when the operation finally ended, I returned home with another rank on my shoulders and silver beginning to appear at my temples.

At the military commendation ceremony, I saw him.

Giang Tri Le stood in the second row.

Older.

Still straight-backed.

Still alone.

Our eyes met.

Afterward, he approached me.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

Finally, he said:

“Welcome home.”

I looked at him calmly.

“Thank you, Chief Giang.”

The formality made his eyes redden.

He smiled bitterly.

“You really never came back.”

I glanced toward the memorial wall where Tieu Than’s name had been added years earlier at my request.

Then I answered:

“I did come back.”

Giang Tri Le looked at me.

I smiled faintly.

“Just not to you.”

And this time, when I walked away, there was no anger left between us.

Only ten years of distance.

A dead marriage.

And the quiet certainty that some people understand what they have lost only after the person they neglected has finally learned how to live without them.