10-Year Cold War, Wife Died, Husband Found Secret

My name is Shen Jianguo, I’m fifty-five years old, and I live on the second floor of an old-fashioned Western-style house in Shanghai, a house left to me by my parents. My wife, Su Mei, and I have been married for thirty years, and we’ve had a cold war for ten of those years, sleeping in separate rooms for ten. No one might believe it, but this is our most authentic daily life, two strangers living under the same roof.

Ten years, not ten days or ten months. How did it begin? I can hardly remember. It seems like it started with a huge argument over our son’s college application, or maybe even earlier—about who would pick him up from school, whether dinner was too salty or bland, whose family we’d visit for Chinese New Year… A mountain of trivialities piled up, and eventually, neither of us bothered to move a single stone. I don’t know when it started, but we stopped talking, stopped looking at each other. She slept in the master bedroom, and I moved to the small room our son used to live in. There are two rice cookers in the kitchen, the food in the refrigerator is clearly marked with sticky notes, and the clothesline on the balcony has an empty section in the middle, like the Chu-Han border. We’re like two old pieces of furniture in this old house, covered in a thick layer of dust from time, each sitting in a corner, silently decaying. After our son graduated from university, he went to Shenzhen, coming back once or twice a year, which became the only reason we barely needed to talk, but even then, it was just the simplest question and answer: “Son on the phone.” “Yeah.” “Money transferred.” “Okay.”

Su Mei was an accountant, and after retiring, she seemed even busier, always running around, saying she was attending some senior university or community activities. I was too lazy to ask, and never cared what time she came back or what she smelled like. I was a middle school history teacher, and after retiring, my life was simpler: reading, writing, going to the park to watch people play chess, and going home to stare blankly at the TV. We shared the bathroom and kitchen, but our times were always staggered, as if precisely calculated. Occasionally, we would unavoidably bump into each other, but we would quickly turn away, our eyes sweeping across the air above each other’s heads, as if there were an invisible wall there. Ten years, more than two thousand days and nights, and that’s how we got through it. I thought this was how my life would be, until I died, probably just another silent presence in the next room, which my son would then deal with when he came back, nothing more.

Until last month, on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, I went out to the library to return some books. When I returned, I found her collapsed by the bathroom door, her face ashen, a rag in her hand. We called an ambulance, rushed her to the hospital, but she couldn’t be saved due to an acute myocardial infarction. The doctor used many medical terms, but I only remember one: “There might have been some warning signs, but we didn’t pay attention.” My son flew back overnight to handle the funeral arrangements, crying like a child. I stood there, looking at her silhouette covered by the white sheet, feeling an emptiness in my heart, like a typhoon-stricken alleyway, leaving only the desolation and ruins after the howling. I couldn’t cry, and I didn’t even feel much sadness; it just felt unreal. The woman who had been my rival for ten years, who occupied half of this house, was gone just like that? So… easily?

After the funeral, my son had to rush back to Shenzhen for work. With tears in his eyes, he said to me, “Dad, Mom’s things… take some time to sort through them, keep some as a memento, and get rid of the rest.” He patted my shoulder, the force carrying sympathy, and perhaps a hint of bewilderment at his cold-hearted father. Once again, I was alone in the house, eerily quiet, but this quiet was different from the suffocating silence of the past ten years. It was a complete, nihilistic silence, a silence where even the object of our resistance had vanished.

I began tidying her room. This was the first time in ten years I had truly stepped into this space. The room was impeccably clean, almost excessively so, like a showroom that no one had ever lived in. The sheets were perfectly smooth, the clothes in the wardrobe were meticulously arranged by season and color, and the dressing table contained only the simplest skincare products—no makeup, no photos. Everything exuded a cold, unapproachable atmosphere. I felt a little irritated and wanted to finish this task as quickly as possible. I took out the clothes one by one, preparing to pack them up and donate them. Most were plain-colored, old-fashioned garments, consistent with her usual simplicity. But at the very bottom of the wardrobe, under an old camphor wood chest, I felt something hard, wrapped in a floral fabric.

The cloth was wrapped carefully and tied in a knot. I hesitated for a moment, then untied it. Inside was a thick, hardcover notebook with a worn cover, and a small tin box. I opened the tin box first. Inside were some odds and ends: my son’s baby teeth, tied with a red string; several old photos of the three of us in a park, in which she and I were smiling, while my son made a funny face in the middle; and a faded, cheap brooch I had long forgotten, a gift I had given her when we were dating. My heart felt a little heavy, as if something had gently bumped into it.

I picked up the notebook. It had a dark blue cover, and no words. I opened it to the first page; the handwriting was neat and elegant, written in Su Mei’s pen. The date was ten years ago, roughly around the time our cold war began.

” March 15th, cloudy. We argued again. Over something trivial. He said I was unreasonable. I also felt he was cold. I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t want to argue anymore, it’s pointless. My son is about to take the college entrance exam, I can’t let it affect him. From now on, let’s just treat each other as roommates. “

My fingers trembled slightly as I continued flipping through the pages. The notebook contained entries not made every day, but rather intermittently, spanning a full ten years.

” May 2nd. He had a stomachache and secretly went to the kitchen to find medicine. I put the stomach medicine in a conspicuous place on the coffee table; he should have been able to see it. “

” September 10th was Teachers’ Day. His former students came to visit him, and they talked and laughed loudly in the living room. He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. He kept the stewed pear soup warm on the stove; he coughed that evening. “

” January 1st, New Year’s Day. My son called home. He sounded quite happy when he answered. After hanging up, he sat alone on the balcony smoking, his back looking a little hunched. The sweater I’m knitting for him is only missing one sleeve; it’s getting cold, I need to finish it quickly. ” (A small tag next to it listed the yarn color and stitch type.)

” July 8th, the Great Heat. He went to school today for a retirement event for teachers. The collar of his white shirt was a little yellow, so he secretly cleaned it with bleach and hung it to dry. He’ll probably never know. “

” My son got married. At the wedding, we sat together like normal parents. He had a few drinks, and there were tears in his eyes. I cried too, for my son, and for other things as well. When we got home that night, we were still silent. That red cheongsam was one we picked out together many years ago; he said it looked good. Today I finally wore it, but he didn’t seem to notice. Oh well. “

” The medical report came back; my heart isn’t doing well, and the doctor told me to be careful. I didn’t tell him. What’s the point of telling him? Just cause him more worry, or maybe earn me some pitiful sympathy? I don’t want that. “

” I’ve been feeling chest tightness lately, and I get really breathless climbing stairs. Maybe my time is almost up. It’s probably for the best. These past ten years have been too long, too heavy. It’s been torture for him, and for me too. But… there are still some things I haven’t been able to say. Oh well, let it be. This is probably how our marriage will be in this lifetime. “

The last record was from two months ago, and the handwriting was somewhat weak.

” The medicine doesn’t seem to be working very well anymore. At the very bottom of the drawer, there’s an envelope for my son, and some words for him too. I hope… he’ll see it. “

Seeing this, I felt all my strength drain away, collapsing onto the cold floor, my back against the edge of her bed. The notebook slipped from my hands. I couldn’t breathe; my heart felt like it was being gripped tightly by an invisible hand, a painful clench that made me curl up, a hoarse, incoherent sound escaping my throat. Ten years… a full ten years! The indifference I imagined, the apparent blindness, the desolate years of each going their own way… it turned out that for her, it was something entirely different!

She remembered my stomachache, my cough, the dirty collar of my shirt, and my hunched back! She did so much silently, in a corner where I was completely unaware! And what did I do? In these ten years, besides complaining, being indifferent, and treating her like air, what have I done? I didn’t even know she had a heart condition! I didn’t know she secretly took medication! I didn’t know she would wake up at night because of chest tightness! I didn’t know anything! I was only immersed in my own grievances and the so-called “lack of understanding,” building a high wall with silence, trapping her and myself completely inside!

“Let’s just consider it a roommate arrangement,” she wrote ten years ago. But this is hardly a roommate arrangement. It’s clearly a woman, in the ruins of her marriage, using her last bit of strength and self-respect, in her silent way, still trying to fulfill some of her duties as a wife, still secretly… caring for the husband who pushed her away! And I, like a blind man, like a fool, comfortably enjoyed this silent “roommate arrangement,” never thinking about the desolation and perseverance on the other side of the wall.

I suddenly remembered the “envelope.” I scrambled to my feet, rushed to the dressing table, and pulled open the bottom drawer. Sure enough, there lay an ordinary white envelope. My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside were two pieces of paper. One was for my son, briefly outlining his final wishes and the bank’s PIN. The other was for me. It contained only a few lines:

“Jianguo: This is where our lives end. We’ve argued, we’ve resented each other, but… never mind. In the innermost part of the right side of the closet, in that gray cardigan, there’s something in the left pocket. It’s for you. Su Mei.”

I rushed to the closet and found the gray wool cardigan she always wore. In the left pocket, there was a small, hard object. I pulled it out; it was a key. A very old, brass key. I recognized it. It was the key to the first small apartment we rented when we first got married. After we moved, I thought I had lost it long ago. She had kept it, for thirty years, hiding it in the pocket of the clothes she wore every day.

Clutching the cold, uncomfortable key, I finally broke down. I knelt in the empty room, filled with her scent, and sobbed like a child. For the wasted ten years, for her silent sacrifices and grievances, for my belated awakening, for everything we could never relive. This key, which once opened a door to “us,” now felt like a dull knife, piercing the lock that had been rusted shut in my heart for ten years, releasing only regret and excruciating pain. Sadly, the person inside was gone. What I discovered was a past that could never be mended, and a future without her.