I’ve been married for three years and live with my mother-in-law. We don’t have children yet—not because we don’t want them, but because we agreed to wait a few more years—until both our jobs were stable, the mortgage eased up, and we could give our child the best we could. My mother-in-law is gentle, quiet, and has never pressured us. Many times I’ve secretly thanked her for that tactfulness, in a society that’s always asking, “So when are you having a baby?”

That afternoon the sky was overcast, the wind blustering as if promising a downpour over the city. My best friend had just come up from our hometown and immediately thrust a big bag of seafood into my hands: tiger prawns still twitching, crisp white squid, firm blue crabs. “Take it home and put it in the fridge,” she laughed. “Make hotpot tonight, invite your mom and your husband—warm up the house.” My heart bubbled at the thought, imagining the broth gently simmering, the faint scent of lemongrass and lime, the three of us huddled around the table, chatting away.

I swung by home to drop the food off, figuring it would take only ten minutes. My apartment complex faces another building across the same courtyard, under a row of old mahogany trees shedding leaves like rain. I parked in the basement, carried the Styrofoam seafood cooler upstairs, and had just stepped through a shaft of sun into the lobby when I suddenly caught a familiar figure: my mother-in-law. She wore a thin gray sweater and carried a stainless-steel tiffin carrier, its lid slightly ajar so a gentle scent of rice porridge slipped out. She was in a hurry, walking fast like someone with an appointment, and headed straight for the opposite building.

I hesitated. She was probably visiting a friend, I told myself, and I should just go up to put the seafood away. But a strange feeling rose in me like an undertow—vague yet insistent. I looked up to see her already inside the other lobby. Just then, a little boy of about five burst out the door and threw his arms around her. “Grandma!” he cried, bright and clear, and she bent to scoop him up, kissed his hair, so tenderly the whole lobby seemed to soften. She held him and stepped into the elevator, moving with the ease of someone who’d taken that path a hundred times.

My throat tightened. The porridge carrier, the haste, the hug, that “Grandma!”—they twisted together in my head. I set the seafood cooler on a bench, my palms suddenly cold, and quietly followed. The elevator doors slid shut in front of me; I waited for the next car. The light for the 12th floor glowed; I pressed it. In the elevator, I saw my own reflection in the steel: a face straining to stay calm, lips pressed tight, temple hair damp with sweat.

The hallway on the 12th floor was long and narrow. At the end, the door of 1207 was ajar; the warm smell of porridge blended with a trace of laundry detergent wafted out. I heard children’s chatter, the clink of bowls and spoons. My mother-in-law carried the boy inside, her steps light like someone who knew the way by heart. I stood at the threshold, my heart thudding in painful beats. Then I reached out and rang the bell.

After a moment, the door opened a crack. A woman about my age, in beige loungewear with her hair hastily tied back, appeared with a startled look. She stammered, eyes wide, “You… why are you here?”

Before I could answer, a voice sounded from inside—my mother’s voice—my mother-in-law’s, really, but so familiar that I still called her “Mom”: “Who’s at the door, dear?” She came out holding a small spoon. She looked up and met my eyes. She froze, the word snagging in her throat: “You… what are you doing here?”

My knees felt hollow. I braced myself against the doorframe, and my voice came out hoarse: “Mom… why are you here? Who is she? Who is that child?”

Inside, the boy was sitting neatly at the table, his black eyes staring at me curiously. He twirled the spoon in his hand and asked, all innocence, “Grandma, did you put fried shallots on the porridge?” A child’s question—but it pierced the membrane around my heart like a pin, and I had to press my hand to my chest.

There were hurried footsteps from the kitchen. My husband came out, a bowl of porridge in his hands, a few droplets of water on his apron. He froze when he saw me. The color drained from his face as if someone had opened a valve. The room fell into silence—only the tick of a clock and the wind curling down the hallway.

No one spoke first. At last, my mother-in-law set down the spoon and sighed. She said she would explain. She spoke slowly, each word heavy as a nail: that the reason she hadn’t pushed me to have a child wasn’t pure, unconditional generosity—but because… she already had a grandson—her son’s child—outside our marriage. For five years, she and he had kept it secret, afraid of breaking up the family, afraid I’d be hurt, wanting to “let things settle.” The boy was blood of this house. The woman on the threshold was his mother.

“I’m sorry,” my husband said, voice rough. “I… I was wrong. I thought… if I waited until things calmed down, I would tell you. That everything would work out.”

I looked at him and saw a stranger in his eyes. Five years—half the time we’d been married. Five years of dinners laid out, nights waiting for the door to open, days I took his mother to her checkups while he texted, “Working on the promotion paperwork.” Five years of her gentle kindness, never asking about children, and I had thought myself so lucky.

I turned to my mother-in-law. “Mom… how long have you been holding him like that?” She kept silent. I knew the answer didn’t need words.

Suddenly, everything inside me shattered like glass. I stepped forward and slapped him, clean and hard. The sound cracked through that unfamiliar apartment, drawing a line between yesterday and today. “Enough,” I said, strangely calm. “Leave the porridge for your grandson. As for my share… save it for whoever considers me a stranger.”

I turned away. At the door, I heard her call “Dear…,” heard him stammer “Please…,” heard the other woman choke back a sob. I didn’t look back. The elevator sank like a cold well. When the doors opened into the lobby, I realized my hands still smelled of the sea—the scent of the seafood bag I’d left on the bench.

I picked up the cooler but didn’t go home. I drove straight to my friend’s rented place a block away and tucked the food into her fridge. The rain finally came down, the drops smashing against the windshield as if the city itself wanted to wash away my footprints.

That night, I didn’t go back. I rented a small room by the river, the rain tapping on the tin roof with the steadiness of a sewing machine. At five in the morning, I got up, brewed a strong pot of tea, and called a lawyer. I kept it brief and clear: I wanted a divorce.

The next day I returned to the old apartment. I didn’t cry or shout. I pulled the old suitcase down from the closet, folded clothes, paired shoes, and slipped a few old photos into an envelope. My mother-in-law sat on the edge of the bed, hands knit together. She said she was wrong. She said she loved me like a daughter. I nodded. We both knew there are apologies that can’t change the shape of the truth.

He leaned against the doorframe, haggard after a sleepless night. “Give me a chance,” he said. “Even just a chance to make amends.”

“Since when,” I asked, “did you learn to define ‘making amends’ as asking me to stay and look at my own wound every day?”

He fell silent. I zipped the suitcase. My eyes landed on the stainless-steel hotpot in the cupboard. I’d bought it last week because I liked its thick base for holding heat. Turns out it had never once been brought to a full, happy boil.

By afternoon, the divorce papers had been delivered. Everything moved quickly: the apartment was put up for sale, the money split, the things not worth arguing over passed from one hand to the other. The bond of marriage closed without a final scene. I signed. The pen moved across the page like drawing a road out—straight, cold, but clear.

People asked if I regretted it. Of course I did. I regretted the dinners I’d imagined with the bright clatter of a child’s spoon and bowl—my own child. I regretted the evenings I’d run home picturing a steaming hotpot and my mother calling, “Come eat.” But regret isn’t the same as keeping. I can’t live in a house where every time I open the door I bump into the shadow of a lie.

On my last night in that apartment, I took the seafood to my friend’s place. We washed the prawns, cracked the crabs, sliced the lemongrass. The hotpot roared to a boil, steam fogging the windowpanes. I dipped a ring of squid into the broth, pulled it out to dip in salt, pepper, and lime. Salty. Spicy. Hot. I suddenly laughed—couldn’t name the feeling—only knew it pulled me back into the present: here and now, I still have my taste buds, my friends, and a pair of arms to wrap around myself.

Later, sometimes I’d pass by the old complex and glimpse my mother-in-law carrying her grandson from the lobby to the elevators. I know that perhaps they’re four now: her, him, the woman, and the boy. Maybe they’ll be happy in their own way. As for me—I choose happiness my way: not having to witness it, not bowing my head, not being a stranger in my own story.

I moved into a small apartment overlooking a row of old tamarind trees. The window opens to the morning sun; the dining table seats two—one for me, one for the future. I learned to cook just enough portions, to throw out old containers that smelled of unhealed memories. I bought a pot of pothos, watered it gently, and watched new shoots unfurl. I went to work on time, stopped by the small market after, sometimes buying a few prawns—just enough for a sweet, simple soup.

On evenings when the sky turns gloomy and the wind threatens rain, I remember the day I saw her carry the boy into the elevator. That memory isn’t gray anymore. It stands like a milestone—clean lines, clear coordinates—from which I know I turned onto a different road. A road without a three-person seafood hotpot, but with a hot meal for one brave soul.

And when the rain falls, I open the window. The smell of damp earth rises, the scent of the city after thunder, the fragrance of a new day. I light the kettle, set it on the table, and watch the fog bloom on the glass. Somewhere out there, people are still calling “Grandma!” in bright, clear voices. As for me, I call my own name—softly, but sure: “Let’s go.”