The silence after his answer lasted only a few seconds.
But those few seconds were enough for me to understand something.
Tan Canh Xuyen had expected resistance.
Perhaps tears.
Perhaps questions.
Perhaps I would ask whether there was another woman, whether he still loved me, whether five years of marriage and ten years together could really end with one sentence.
Instead, I nodded.
“Okay.”
His eyebrows moved slightly.
I continued calmly.
“Then let’s get divorced.”
This time, he couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Thanh Nghi, you…”
“What?”
He stared at me as though he was trying to find some trace of sarcasm on my face.
“You don’t have anything you want to say?”
I almost found the question amusing.
Hadn’t he already said everything?
He was tired.
We had no common topics.
Coming home had become a form of emotional exhaustion.
And separating from me would be his liberation.
What else was there to discuss?
“If you’ve already decided,” I said, “then talking more won’t change anything.”
Tan Canh Xuyen fell silent.
For some reason, my calmness seemed to make him more uncomfortable than anger would have.
He leaned back against the sofa.
After a while, he said, “I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you.”
I looked at him.
He continued carefully.
“You haven’t worked for years. Returning to the workplace won’t be easy. Doa Doa is still young. I know you’ve sacrificed a lot for this family.”
Sacrificed.
Interesting.
He finally remembered that word when our marriage was ending.
“So the apartment can stay with you,” he said. “The car too.”
I didn’t answer.
“I have enough income to start over easily. You don’t.”
There it was.
The sentence beneath all the other sentences.
You don’t.
No career.
No salary.
No economic independence.
In his eyes, after leaving Tan Canh Xuyen, I would become a woman whose greatest challenge was simply surviving.
He probably thought leaving me the apartment and car was generosity.
Perhaps he even believed it would compensate for the years when I had stepped away from my own career to raise our child and manage his life.
I lowered my eyes.
“Fine.”
He frowned again.
“That’s all?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“I thought you’d at least discuss the property.”
“I don’t need to.”
His expression became complicated.
Then he sighed.
“Thanh Nghi, don’t act impulsively because you’re angry.”
I smiled faintly.
“You’re the one asking for a divorce.”
That silenced him.
The paperwork moved quickly.
Much more quickly than either of us expected.
There was no battle over assets.
No screaming.
No relatives gathering around a table to persuade us to reconsider.
Tan Canh Xuyen seemed almost relieved by how cooperative I was.
His parents called me once.
His mother cried.
His father sighed repeatedly and told me that couples who had lived together for so many years shouldn’t separate over “small emotional problems.”
I didn’t argue.
I only said:
“He wants to leave.”
After that, there wasn’t much they could say.
Three days later, I opened an old box at the bottom of the wardrobe.
Inside were things I hadn’t touched in years.
My university certificates.
Professional qualifications.
Several awards from my former company.
And beneath them, a photograph.
I was twenty-five in it.
Standing on a stage in a dark suit, holding an award in one hand.
My eyes were bright.
My shoulders were straight.
Behind me was a screen displaying the words:
ANNUAL STRATEGY COMPETITION — FIRST PLACE.
I stared at that woman for a long time.
Then Doa Doa came running into the room.
“Mommy!”
I quickly put the photograph down.
She climbed onto my lap.
“What are you looking at?”
“Someone I used to know.”
She tilted her head.
Then she pointed at the photograph.
“That’s Mommy.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She looked at the picture and then at me.
“Mommy was pretty.”
I laughed.
“Was?”
Doa Doa immediately wrapped both arms around my neck.
“Mommy is pretty now too!”
I hugged her.
And suddenly, for the first time in years, I felt something inside me awaken.
Tan Canh Xuyen thought the woman in that photograph had disappeared.
To be fair, for a while, I thought so too.
But perhaps she had never disappeared.
Perhaps I had simply put her away.
Like the suits hanging untouched in the wardrobe.
Like the certificates inside the box.
Like every ambition I had postponed because there was always a child to care for, a dinner to prepare, a parent to accompany to the hospital, or a husband whose career was supposedly more important.
That night, after Doa Doa fell asleep, I opened my laptop.
I hadn’t updated my résumé in almost five years.
The document looked like it belonged to another person.
I spent until three in the morning rewriting it.
Then I opened an old contact list.
My finger stopped over one name.
Lin Wei.
My former supervisor.
Years ago, before I resigned, she had tried three times to persuade me to stay.
The last thing she told me was:
“If you ever want to come back, call me.”
Five years had passed.
I didn’t know whether that promise still meant anything.
But I called anyway.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Director Lin.”
There was silence.
Then:
“Thanh Nghi?”
I smiled.
“It’s me.”
Her voice immediately changed.
“My God. Where have you been?”
“At home.”
“For five years?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
Then she asked:
“Why are you calling me at eleven at night?”
I looked toward the bedroom where my daughter was sleeping.
“Because I want to work again.”
This time, Lin Wei didn’t speak for several seconds.
Then she laughed.
Not mockingly.
Almost excitedly.
“Finally.”
One word.
And strangely, my eyes became hot.
Not when my husband asked for a divorce.
Not when I discovered his secret social media account.
Not even when I realized that he considered my years of unpaid work evidence that I had become worthless.
But that one word almost made me cry.
Finally.
As though somewhere outside this apartment, someone had still been waiting for Hua Thanh Nghi to return.
“Send me your résumé tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ve been gone for five years.”
“I know.”
“The industry has changed.”
“I know.”
“I’ll need time to catch up.”
“Thanh Nghi.”
I stopped.
Her voice became serious.
“You were one of the best strategic planners I’ve ever trained. Five years away doesn’t erase your brain.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, Tan Canh Xuyen’s salary had grown.
His title had grown.
His world had grown.
And mine had slowly shrunk until even I had started measuring myself by his standards.
No income.
No title.
No value.
But that night, someone reminded me that human ability didn’t disappear simply because nobody had paid for it recently.
“I’ll send it tomorrow,” I said.
“Good.”
Before hanging up, Lin Wei added:
“And find something decent to wear. If you’re serious, come see me Monday.”
The divorce was finalized the following week.
Outside the Civil Affairs Department, Tan Canh Xuyen repeated what we had already agreed.
“The house is yours. The car too. I won’t take anything.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
He studied my face.
Perhaps he was waiting for gratitude.
Perhaps regret.
He received neither.
I picked up Doa Doa and left.
What Tan Canh Xuyen didn’t know was that the previous evening, I had already received an offer.
It wasn’t comparable to his 2.6-million-yuan annual income.
Not even close.
My position wasn’t especially high.
My salary wasn’t impressive.
But when I saw my own name printed at the top of that contract, I stared at it for nearly ten minutes.
Because it was mine.
Not Mrs. Tan.
Not Tan Canh Xuyen’s wife.
Not Doa Doa’s mother.
Hua Thanh Nghi.
And there was something else he didn’t know.
The apartment he had so generously “given” me?
I had no intention of keeping it.
Three days after our divorce, I signed the listing agreement.
One week later, Tan Canh Xuyen returned to collect several personal documents he had forgotten.
He opened the apartment door with his old key.
Then he stopped.
The enormous living room was almost empty.
The family photographs were gone.
Doa Doa’s toys were gone.
My clothes were gone.
Even the framed wedding photograph that had hung beside the hallway for five years had disappeared.
Only several sealed boxes remained near the entrance.
His boxes.
On top of them was an envelope.
Tan Canh Xuyen stood there for a long time before opening it.
Inside was the spare key to the apartment.
And one short note.
I had written only two sentences.
The house has been listed for sale. Your belongings are packed below.
From now on, we should both learn to take care of our own lives.
For the first time since proposing divorce, Tan Canh Xuyen finally understood something.
I hadn’t calmly agreed because I was too weak to fight for our marriage.
I had agreed because, long before he said the word divorce, I had already begun walking away. Pasted text
