At twenty-two, Beatrix went alone to pick up my wedding ring, only to be attacked on her way back, casting a shadow over our wedding day. Paul told me, “She’s pregnant now and wants to keep the child. She met us because of you. You should take care of her.” I sympathized with her and didn’t question his words. I simply did my best to support her.
When I was twenty-three, after a difficult labor, I finally delivered Adeline. When I woke up, the first face I saw was Beatrix’s, looking pale and worn. Paul explained, “Beatrix passed out from donating blood to save you. We owe her our lives now.”
I’d just narrowly escaped death, yet a chill ran through me as if I were bound by something unseen. After Paul left, Beatrix’s weak smile turned sharp. “Alice, from today onward, you owe me a life. Remember that debt.”
I lost the right to celebrate my own wedding anniversary. “It’s too painful for Beatrix,” Paul said. “It’s cruel to celebrate when she has suffered so much for us.”
And Adeline has never had a birthday celebration since she was born. “Her birth almost cost me you and nearly killed Beatrix,” he’d say. “It’s better not to make a fuss over birthdays.”