“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

The banging on the door grew louder, accompanied by rude shouts demanding payment. Mark covered his ears with the pillow, trembling with fear. His stomach ached. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday. He only ate raw instant noodles because the gas for his portable stove had run out, and he had no money to buy a new canister. His face, once neat and arrogant, was now gaunt, covered by a scruffy beard, and his eyes were sunken in terrible dark circles. He looked at the news on social media on the screen of a cheap, cracked phone. There was a photo of me next to Mr. Harrison launching a company social responsibility project.

I was smiling elegantly, Mark cried. Tears of belated regret soaked the old pillow. He remembered again the comfortable house, the delicious food, and the wife who had served him with all her heart. He had thrown it all away for a momentary pleasure, and now he had to pay the price with a life of suffering. Back in my life, after the meeting and signing some important documents, I asked the chauffeur to take me to the place I most wanted to go, Oakidge Cemetery. The evening sky was a reddish orange color.