Chapter 9
Standing outside the civil affairs office, I was still in a daze.
Looking at the red book in my hand, the man in the photo from three months ago was Alan Simpson, but today, it was Simon Parker. It felt like a dream.
That afternoon, I was lost in thought on the sofa when the clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. Simon Parker, wearing the little bear apron I had bought, was cooking.
My phone rang. It was the police station, saying Alan Simpson wanted to see me.
But I didn’t want to see him.
After a lot of back–and–forth, I reluctantly
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agreed to take his call.
His voice was hoarse and weary, tinged with deep regret.
“Clara, are you still angry with me?”
Angry? Seriously? You’re asking if I’m angry when I, your ex–wife, am already remarried?
I didn’t respond, quietly listening to him lament the hardships he’d been through recently.
An hour later, Alan Simpson suddenly spoke.
“Clara, do you remember the joint bank account we opened together?”
“You deposited fifty thousand dollars in it, right? Could you send some to my mom?”
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I was suddenly intrigued. Leaning back on the sofa, eating the pomelo that Simon Parker had peeled for me, I asked lazily,
“What’s up? Is your mom short on money?”
There was a brief silence on the other end, before Alan Simpson’s voice came back, sounding pleading.
“My mom’s getting older, and she keeps asking for bird’s nest soup. You know how it is–she had a tough childhood and never got to enjoy any luxuries. She’s just trying to make up for it now.”
I understood immediately–no, it wasn’t his mom who wanted the bird’s nest soup; it was Alice Mitchell.
“Alan Simpson, how much have you actually deposited into that account over the past ten years?”
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He hesitated. His family knew we had a joint account, but they didn’t know that out of the fifty thousand in it, forty–nine thousand nine hundred and ninety was my contribution. The remaining ten dollars were the ones he’d added when opening the account, just to cover the card fee.
“Clara, we’re married. That’s our shared property. Don’t be so stingy. If you really can’t spare it, just consider it as me borrowing it from you.”
I almost burst out laughing.
“Alan Simpson, didn’t anyone tell you we’re divorced now?”
“What do you mean?”
Alan Simpson’s voice suddenly went up an
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octave, clearly shocked.
“You should start calling me Mrs. Parker now.“”
I casually tossed the words out, and on the other end, I could hear a mix of curses, coughing, and the sound of something being thrown.
Not my problem, I hung up the phone just as Simon Parker placed the last dish on the table.
“You like cooking?”
I leaned over to him, gazing at the table full of fragrant homemade dishes, my eyes practically glowing.
“Not really.”
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Simon Parker handed me the knife and fork. His way of eating was graceful, slow, and elegant, a stark contrast to my own hurried, almost barbaric pace.
After the meal, Simon Parker diligently cleaned up the dishes, while I snuggled into the sofa to watch a movie.
If it had been before, Alan Simpson would’ve come home and started playing video games, never doing housework, while I would’ve been running around like a hamster on a wheel.
After washing the dishes, Simon Parker sat next to me with his laptop, handling business matters.
I glanced at his screen–complex architectural blueprints, which I couldn’t understand.
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We both got lost in our own tasks, but the atmosphere was quiet and harmonious.
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