No Apology Can Rewrite My Past

After my son Alex died, I could no longer speak. The doctor held the diagnosis report, his brow deeply furrowed: "Ms. Scott, this is psychogenic mutism, primarily caused by emotional trauma. It will require gradual therapy." I sat on the examination chair, my fingers clutching a kindergarten photo of Alex, where the child smiled, revealing two little tiger teeth. I knew deep down it wasn't some illness that had stolen my voice; the light inside me had entirely gone out, taking with it the strength to speak. When my husband, Finn Collins, came to pick me up, the air in the car felt suffocatingly heavy. His gaze grew increasingly complex—marked by worry, helplessness, and a hint of estrangement I couldn't quite grasp. At home, he took off his coat and casually draped it over the sofa's armrest, then sat down beside me. The sofa sank in one spot; I could feel his gaze resting above my head. "Willow," his voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb something, "I'll host a party next week and invite some friends over to brighten the house. Maybe it will help you." I said nothing, only staring blankly at the black-framed photo on the tea table. Alex's smiling face seemed painfully glaring under the light. How could I 'brighten up' the place where I lost him with a group of strangers? On the day of the party, the doorbell kept ringing nonstop. Finn Collins busied himself opening the door to welcome guests, and soon the living room was packed with people. The laughter and chatter surged like a tide, wrapping around me and making it hard to breathe. Lily Young arrived first. She was Finn's childhood friend, and the moment she entered, she affectionately hooked her arm around his. The red polish on her nails flickered, stabbing at my eyes. "Finn, it's been such a long time," she murmured close to him, her tone laced with a coquettish softness. "Have you been very tired lately? I see fine lines deepening around your eyes." Finn Collins smiled and gently patted her hand, glancing over at me: "It's okay, I'm just worried about Willow's condition. She's been silent the whole time, and it worries me deeply." I sat in the corner of the sofa, curling myself up behind the cushion. Watching them laugh and talk, discussing recent work and new bags, I felt like an outsider—without even the right to join in. Partway through, Lily Young walked over with a glass of juice, looking down at me from above. Her shadow fell over me, making me feel suffocated. "Willow Scott, I know you're hurting," her voice carried a pitying tone, "but this constant state isn't the solution." I think you should get rid of all of Alex's belongings. Out of sight, out of mind—that's the only way you can start to heal sooner. I suddenly looked up and glared at her, my hands clenched tightly into fists, my nails digging into my palms, sending a sharp pain through me. Every single item of Alex's holds memories of him and me. Who is she to tell me to destroy them just like that? Finn Collins came over then. He looked at Lily Young, then at me, and surprisingly sided with Lily, saying, "Willow, Lily is right. Maybe this could actually help you." You keep staring at those things; you'll only remain trapped in the past. I looked at Finn in disbelief, my lips moving, but no sound came out. That was our son—how could he say something like that? Before I could react, Lily had already turned and walked over to the TV stand, picking up that white urn—Alex's final resting place. "Finn, give me a hand," she said casually, shaking the urn in her hand. "Flush this down, so Willow won't keep staring at it and feeling sad." Finn Collins hesitated for a moment, his fingers twitching slightly, but in the end, he followed her into the bathroom. I rose from the sofa like a madman, rushing toward the bathroom, only to be stopped by someone next to me. Someone grabbed my arm; someone urged me to "calm down." Their hands were like shackles, binding me until I could only watch helplessly as the bathroom door closed. Soon, the sound of running water came from inside the bathroom. That sound was like a blunt knife, stabbing repeatedly into my heart, making me tremble all over with pain. I summoned all my strength to break free from the crowd; my shoulder struck the tea table, sending the fruit platter crashing to the floor, the fruit rolling everywhere. I recklessly pushed open the bathroom door— The white urn lay empty on the washbasin; the toilet was still running, with white powder floating on the water's surface. A loud buzzing filled my mind, as if the whole world had collapsed. An unbearable pain erupted from my chest like a volcano, bursting through the restraints in my throat. "Finn Collins!" I screamed, my voice hoarse and barely my own, "We are getting a divorce!"