Chapter 1

1: 1

Damian Weiss had a severe germophobia.

The first time my mother visited our home, he stood in the doorway and sprayed disinfectant three times.

She asked, carefully, whether she might use the bathroom.

Instead he pulled me aside.

"Old people have bad hygiene habits. Don't push me to put up with it."

That day I walked two kilometers with my mother before we found a public restroom.

The whole way back, she kept saying it was fine.

But I saw her wipe her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking.

After that, she wouldn't even step into our complex.

Until today, when I came home from a two-week business trip.

In the bedroom, Damian was using the spoon that Winona's mother had drunk from to test the temperature of her porridge.

The man who disinfected the water cup after my mother so much as touched it now looked perfectly at ease, without so much as a frown.

His first love, Winona Henson, leaned against the doorframe, smiling.

"Auntie's been staying half a month now. He cooks for her himself every day, so worried no one else would care for her carefully enough."

I asked Damian what had happened to his germophobia.

He gave me a flat glance.

"Her mother is sick. Do you really have to fight for attention right now?"

So it turned out his germophobia could pick and choose who it applied to.

...

I didn't ask again. I turned and went to the study.

Damian followed me in, lifted my scarf from the back of the chair, and reached around to drape it over me.

"It's colder out. A draft always gives you a headache."

Seven years of marriage, and every time he hurt me badly enough that I wanted to leave, he'd offer a small kindness at the last moment.

Then, the instant I wavered, he'd calmly drive the knife in again.

He tucked a shopping list into my bag.

"While you're out, pick up some sugar-free oatmeal, and grab two sets of dishes. Auntie just got out of the hospital, and mixing the household things around isn't sanitary. Winona sat up all night watching her, her hands are shaking. Make the trip for her."

I took the list back out and set it down on the desk.

"She has hands. She has legs too."

Winona stood in the doorway, her eyes reddening at once.

"I'll go myself. Damian, please don't fight because of us."

Damian's face cooled, and his hand fell from my shoulder.

"I just asked you to do me a favor. When your mother came last time, didn't I book her a hotel? Millicent Swanson, don't turn yourself this bitter just because I'm taking care of someone."

"That day she only wanted to borrow the bathroom once."

"That day I was running a fever and couldn't stand the smell of the medicated oil on old people. How long ago was that? You still have to dig it up?"

I didn't want to argue anymore. I opened the drawer and took out the folder with my documents.

Winona's mother called out from the bedroom, and Damian turned at once.

At the door, he looked back and reminded me:

"Come home early tonight. I'll make the fish you like. Don't eat junk out there."

I carried my bag downstairs.

The security guard chased out of the gatehouse and handed me a cloth bag, washed pale from use.

"Ms. Swanson, your mother was just here. She stood at the gate almost an hour. Said she didn't dare call you, afraid your husband would be upset."

Inside was a thermos, two pairs of handmade insoles, and a small jar of pickled radish.

There was a note from my mother stuck to the lid.

【Wiped the outside down with alcohol. Don't take the radish upstairs, the smell will bother Damian.】

I called her. The wind was loud on her end, mixed with the sound of a bus pulling into a stop.

"Why didn't you come up just now?"

"Isn't there a sick person at your place? I came by bus, I'm covered in dust. Eat the buns while they're warm. Don't let Damian know I was there, so you two don't fight again."

"How long did you wait?"

"Not long. Just soaked up some sun."

She said it lightly. There was no sun at all today.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Damian.

【Your headache pills are in the side pocket. Remember to take them.】

I stared at those two lines for a long time.

I didn't go back to the marital home. I took a cab to the old complex where my mother lived.

When she saw me come in with my luggage, she looked past me first.

"Damian didn't come?"

"He's busy."

I took the short-term lease I'd just signed out of my bag and pressed the key into her palm.

"I rented a place nearby. Starting tomorrow, we live together."

My mother hurriedly pushed the key back at me.

"Did you two have a fight? I just won't go to your place, that's all. Don't make trouble for my sake."

"It has nothing to do with you."

"How can it have nothing to do with me? You were doing fine before."

I crouched down and changed her worn-through slippers.

"Mom, it wasn't fine before. You were all just putting up with things for my sake."

She looked at me, her lips moving a few times, her eyes slowly going red.

She didn't try to talk me out of it again. She just turned and went into the bedroom, and came back out holding an old quilt, sun-softened and fluffy.

"Sleep here for now. I'll make you porridge tomorrow."

There was no scented diffuser in the apartment, no disinfectant, and the kitchen still carried the smell of pickled radish.

I lay on the bed she'd made up, and for the first time I didn't worry about whether the smell on me would make anyone frown.