Betrayal on My Father's Memorial Day

Today is the seventh anniversary of my marriage to Ethan Scott. I left work early, went to the supermarket to buy his favorite river prawns and asparagus, and even went out of my way to the cake shop at the end of the alley to order his favorite black forest cake. When I got home, I placed the cake in the center of the dining table and set the gift I had prepared — a pair of custom sandalwood cufflinks — beside it. The clock on the wall ticked from seven to eight, then from eight to nine, yet Ethan still hadn't come home. I sent him a message: "When will you be back? The food is still hot." After half an hour, he finally replied, "There's a company event; I'll be home late. You go to sleep first." No mention of our anniversary, not even a single greeting. I sat at the dining table, watching the food slowly grow cold, feeling as if something was blocking my heart—stifling and heavy. At eleven thirty, the sound of the door lock finally turned. Ethan pushed the door open, carrying a faint scent of cologne—not the brand I use. As he changed his shoes, I noticed his hair was combed meticulously, his shirt collar crisp, and even his cuffs buttoned neatly. Before, when he came home late from work, he would always casually loosen his tie, his shirt wrinkled. "You're back?" I walked over, wanting to help him take off his coat. He turned sideways to avoid me, his tone indifferent: "Yeah, I'm tired. I'll take a shower first." He headed toward the bathroom, completely ignoring the cake and cufflinks on the dining table. I stood there, fingers clutching the box of cufflinks, slightly dazed. The next morning, Trista sat in her high chair eating breakfast when she suddenly looked up and asked me, "Mom, why didn't Dad eat with us yesterday?" Trista had just turned five; her eyes were round and bright, so much like mine. I gently touched her head and whispered, "Trista, if Mom and Dad were to separate, who would you want to live with?" She hesitated for a moment, then set down her spoon and threw herself into my arms: "I want to live with Mom! Dad never plays with me, but Mom tells me stories and makes my favorite strawberry pudding." Holding her soft little body, tears nearly welled in my eyes. It turns out that even a child can sense that this home had already changed long ago.