Chapter 1The Last Strawberry

My daughter, who lives abroad, specifically mailed me a box of imported, supposedly very expensive strawberries.

I happily followed her instructions, washing them three times in a saltwater soak. Just as I was about to eat one, my one-year-old grandson started crying.

After I finished feeding him and came back out to the living room, all that was left of the strawberries on the coffee table were a few green leaves.

My husband of thirty-five years criticized me for being careless, saying I shouldn't have used a colander to hold them.

"I don't know what you do all day. Look at this, there's water all over the coffee table."

My son swallowed the very last strawberry, too busy playing a video game on his phone to even look up.

"Mom, these strawberries are actually pretty good. Ask my sister where she bought them. I want to buy some for Chloe. She's been working so hard lately, I need to treat her."

Looking at the puddle of water on the coffee table, I suddenly felt that this life was entirely meaningless.

So, I turned around and called my daughter. "That visa you mentioned last time... can we still apply for it?"

Later, my daughter posted a video of me picking giant strawberries at a farm abroad. I was smiling, looking ten years younger.

The father and son back home saw it and their eyes went red.

"It was just a strawberry. Why wouldn't she come back?"

* * *

"You're this old and you're still so clumsy. I really don't know how you manage to be a grandmother."

My husband, Arthur, leaned back in his recliner, his legs crossed. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and continued nagging me through the cloud of smoke.

"And you're still thinking about going to be a nanny for someone else? You'd be lucky if they didn't fire you on the first day."

Looking at the face I had stared at for thirty-five years, I suddenly felt nauseous. It was like looking at a pile of old, rotting manure in a vegetable patch.

I walked over and snatched the cigarette from his mouth, crushing it out in the ashtray.

The movement was so sudden that Arthur froze for a good moment.

"Have you lost your mind?!"

I picked up the rag nearby and wiped the water off the coffee table. "My daughter-in-law said no smoking in the house. The baby is too young to be inhaling secondhand smoke."

Arthur’s eyes went wide.

"I wasn't smoking right next to my grandson! What's the big deal? The smoke clears in a minute!"

Seeing him reach for his lighter again, I slammed the rag down on the coffee table. "Then you still can't smoke!"

My suddenly raised voice finally caught the attention of my son, Mark. He looked up blankly from his phone screen, looked at me, then at his dad. He didn't say a word, just stood up and walked into his bedroom, still yelling at his game.

"Push the lane! Push the lane! I'll tank the turret!"

Honestly, I was famous for having a soft temper. In all our years of marriage, I rarely ever raised my voice at Arthur. Because every time I showed even the slightest hint of dissatisfaction, he would say: "Helen! Have your wings grown too stiff? Did you forget how I worked myself to the bone from dawn to dusk to support you all these years? You should be grateful!"

Just like now. After I yelled at him, Arthur immediately stiffened his neck and started throwing out harsh threats.

"I think you're getting senile. Throwing a fit out of nowhere! If you don't like the smoke, then get out of this house. If you've got the guts, leave my house!"

"This is my house too! It's marital property, what right do you have to kick me out?!"

My daughter, Emma, taught me to say that.

Ever since she became independent, she always loved telling me I was a pushover, letting her dad control me for decades. She wanted me to grow a spine.

"Women hold up half the sky! Mom, are you planning on indulging them for the rest of your life? You're only in your fifties. Instead of being an unpaid maid for them, you should come with me and see the world."

I used to mumble and not know how to argue back with her.

For decades, I had lived the first half of my life exactly like this. No one ever told me it was wrong. My mother, who died young, and Emma's grandmother, both said men were the sky, and women should yield and endure to keep the peace in the family.

But Emma said that was wrong. She said a family is built by both partners, that a woman raising children is just as formidable as a man making money, and that there's no rule saying women have to serve men.

Emma said it so often that a tiny bit of it finally stuck with me. And it came in handy right now.

He yelled, so I yelled back.

Arthur had never seen me stand my ground like this. For a moment, he was actually choked up. He panted heavily like an old ox, but in the end, he didn't light the cigarette.

I looked down at the empty basket that used to hold the strawberries and said softly:

"Those were the strawberries Emma bought for me. I didn't even get to eat a single one."

"What?"

Arthur acted like he didn't understand.

I repeated it again.

He looked at me in disbelief.

"Just because of a strawberry, you're throwing a temper tantrum at me? How old are you, and you're still this gluttonous?"

Right. Just because of a strawberry.

But I served my in-laws, managed all the household chores, and raised two children. In all these years, I had never eaten a strawberry.

When I was young, we didn't have the money for them. Now that I'm old, I just wanted to eat one strawberry, and my husband calls me a glutton.

"Forget it. If you want to eat them so badly, go buy a pound and eat them. I've never seen such a gluttonous old woman."

Arthur's face was dark, acting like he was doing me a favor by forgiving me.

He was definitely waiting for me to soften up and apologize to him like I always did. But I didn't want to deal with him, and I didn't even want to take care of my grandson right now. I slowly went into the bedroom, dug out my ID and passport, and walked out the door.