Inside the room, his son was sleeping soundly. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, falling on his peaceful little face, his long eyelashes drooping, making him look like a fallen angel.
But he will never call me Mom again.
She will never reach out her little hands again, wanting me to hold her.
I looked at his sleeping profile, and the grievances, pain, and despair that had accumulated over the past six months collapsed in that moment. I covered my mouth, and suppressed sobs escaped through my fingers. My shoulders trembled violently, and I almost fainted.
After the accident, I blamed myself countless times in the dead of night, blaming myself for not taking good care of my son, blaming myself for being so useless that I couldn't even protect the person I loved most.
I even thought, "If only I had been the one who got into that accident."
But I never imagined that the culprit would be my husband, whom I had loved for ten years and married for seven.
He is the man who took gentle care of me when I was sick and cried bitterly when his son was critically ill.
How could he be so cruel?
The child is only two years old, and that's his own son! How could he do that?