Chapter 4

Chapter 4

On the ride home, Dylan and I sat in silence—a common state between us. I was quiet, and he was too.

"Did you eat enough? You barely touched your food," he asked.

I nodded.

"Mom’s health is getting worse. I’ll go with her to the sanatorium this weekend," he said.

"Okay," I replied.

In our three years of marriage, Dylan had doted on me: buying me everything I liked, and even things I didn’t—like the things Luna Parker had loved. He took care of all the housework, grocery shopping, and cooking. Every time we visited, my mother would smile and say I’d found someone to rely on for the rest of my life.

But I knew the truth: he treated me this way only because I looked like her. What he was clinging to was his relationship with Luna, his obsession—not his feelings for me.

That’s why, when my mother was seriously ill, he gave money but never visited. That’s why, when I wanted to go to the hospital because I couldn’t get pregnant, he just comforted me and said it was okay.

To the outside world, he was a perfect man: a good son and husband at home. But he just didn’t want to have a child with me.

Yet I couldn’t tell anyone this—because I’d brought it all on myself, and I was willing to bear it.

"You don’t have to come if you’re busy. I can handle it alone," I said.

The sanatorium was halfway up a mountain, surrounded by beautiful scenery. I helped my mother climb step by step.

"I’m not busy. I want to come with you," he replied.

"Did you and A Feng (Dylan) have a fight?" my mother asked.

I shook my head. We’d never argued—except once. Even then, it wasn’t a fight, just a slight raise in voices. It had happened right after we got our marriage certificate, after Luna Parker’s death. I’d known it was my chance; if I didn’t seize it, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

So I’d cut my hair like Luna’s, worn the dresses she’d worn, and kept appearing in the places they’d once been. I was imitating her, pretending to be someone else.

And Luna Parker herself had taught me how. I’d read her diary and stepped into her life.

Yet we were still two different people. It was hard to miss the awkwardness in Dylan’s eyes when he first met me. After all, how could two people who weren’t related look so identical? I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

Gradually, I’d helped him open up, soothed the pain of losing his wife. We visited the places they’d gone, ate the same steak they’d eaten, and saw the same scenery they’d seen. I knew the dead couldn’t be replaced, but I still secretly hoped he’d notice me.