The silk scarf touched my neck.

A soft, expensive fabric.

The kind of gift Chu Pho Xuyen had never thought to buy me in seven years of marriage.

I stood there quietly as he adjusted it with the same careful expression he once had when we were newly married.

For a moment, if I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend nothing had changed.

Almost.

“Does it look good?” he asked.

I looked at him.

The man standing in front of me was still the husband everyone admired.

The regimental commander.

The soldier who protected others.

The man who was respected throughout the military district.

But he was no longer the man who held my hand when An An was born.

He was no longer the father who promised our son he would always be there.

“Yes,” I said softly.

“It suits her.”

His fingers stopped.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

“Who?”

I looked at the silk scarf.

“Co Tran.”

The room became silent.

For the first time in a long time, Chu Pho Xuyen looked uncomfortable.

“Phuong Nhuoc, what are you talking about?”

I smiled.

A tired smile.

The kind that comes after someone has cried too many tears to cry anymore.

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I bought this for you.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“You bought it because Canh Canh wanted her mother to have the same one.”

His expression changed.

Because I was right.

I had seen it.

The matching scarf.

The same color.

The same design.

Something he had chosen carefully for another woman.

Something he had never once thought about giving me.

“Phuong Nhuoc…”

I interrupted him.

“Do you know what An An asked me before he left?”

His face froze.

For the first time that night, I saw fear in his eyes.

Not guilt.

Fear.

“What did he say?”

I looked down at the suitcase beside me.

“He asked if you hated him.”

The color drained from Chu Pho Xuyen’s face.

“No.”

His voice became urgent.

“No, that’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

I looked at him.

“You missed his birthday because you were accompanying Canh Canh to the hospital.”

“You forgot the parent meeting because Co Tran needed help.”

“You didn’t answer my calls when An An was burning with fever because you were celebrating her daughter’s birthday.”

Every word was calm.

That was what seemed to hurt him the most.

I was no longer angry.

Anger meant I still cared.

“I waited for you that night.”

My voice became quieter.

“I sat beside our son and told him his father would come.”

Chu Pho Xuyen’s lips parted.

“But you didn’t.”

The room felt colder.

“You know what hurts the most?”

I touched the scarf around my neck and slowly removed it.

“It wasn’t that you loved someone else.”

“It wasn’t even that you forgot me.”

I placed the scarf on the table.

“It was that our son was dying, and he still defended you.”

His eyes turned red.

“Phuong Nhuoc…”

“He said you were protecting the country.”

“He said you were busy because you were a hero.”

I laughed softly.

A broken laugh.

“But his hero never came.”

The silence afterward was unbearable.

Chu Pho Xuan looked at the luggage.

Then at me.

“What are you saying?”

I picked up the divorce approval document from the table.

“I’m leaving.”

His face changed instantly.

“What?”

“The divorce has been approved.”

He grabbed the paper.

His hands shook as he read the red stamp.

“No.”

His voice was barely a whisper.

“No, this is impossible.”

“It’s already done.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

I looked at him.

“You signed it.”

His expression froze.

That memory finally returned to him.

The paper.

The moment he signed without looking.

The document he thought was meaningless.

“You tricked me?”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“I gave you a choice.”

“You were just too busy making tomato eggs for another child to notice.”

That sentence hit him harder than anything else.

He stepped backward.

Because suddenly he remembered.

The countless times An An had asked:

“Dad, can you cook eggs for me?”

And every time, he refused.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he didn’t want to.

But for Canh Canh, he learned immediately.

That night, for the first time, Chu Pho Xuyen walked through the house and noticed the things he had ignored.

The small shoes by the door.

The unfinished drawing on the refrigerator.

The toy car missing from An An’s room.

The empty bed.

The silence.

“Where is An An?”

His voice trembled.

I looked at him.

“He’s gone.”

The words finally landed.

Not as an argument.

Not as a complaint.

As reality.

His face went completely pale.

“What did you say?”

“Our son died.”

The man who had faced battlefields without fear suddenly looked like someone who had lost everything.

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

Three days.

He had been home for three days.

He had walked past my grief.

He had complained about my sadness.

He had asked about a fever.

But he never noticed that his son was gone.

Chu Pho Xuan grabbed the back of the chair.

His breathing became uneven.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I stared at him.

“I called you.”

Silence.

“I called until my phone died.”

His eyes widened.

The truth finally reached him.

And it destroyed him.

That night, Chu Pho Xuan searched through every room in the house.

Looking for An An.

Looking for proof that this was a nightmare.

But the little boy who used to run toward him shouting “Dad!” was no longer there.

The next morning, I boarded the train home.

I didn’t look back.

I thought leaving him behind would be the hardest thing I ever did.

I was wrong.

Because before the train left the station, my phone received a message.

From Chu Pho Xuan.

Only three words.

“Where is his grave?”

I stared at the screen.

And then another message arrived.

“Please let me see my son.”

For the first time since An An left, tears fell from my eyes.

Not because I missed him.

Because I realized something cruel.

Chu Pho Xuan had finally become a father.

But he was three days too late.