Our marriage, though brief, undeniably had many wonderful memories.
James was a man with a strong sense of responsibility, mature and steady. Apart from being busy, he had no other flaws.
After marriage, for convenience, we rarely stayed at the Sullivan family home, instead living in a flat in City A.
But we were both people with strong personal boundaries, not liking strangers disturbing our space, so we didn’t hire a housekeeper or nanny.
I tidied up everything at home. When we first started living together after marriage, I wasn’t used to remembering where I put things.
One morning when James had to go to work, we had both slept late the night before, and James might have overslept.
He had an important morning meeting. I was still half–asleep when I heard him come over to shake me, buzzing in my ear:
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11:45 PM
He had an important morning meeting. I was still half–asleep when I heard him come over to shake me, buzzing in my ear:
“Amelia, where did you put my black suit? And that dark blue tie?”
I was so sleepy I could barely open my eyes. I futilely waved his hand away, curling up in the blanket and trying to bury my head too.
James seemed to laugh, both amused and urgent, coaxing me by my ear: “Come on, Amelia, I’m really running late.”
He was so close to my ear, his breath tickling. My ears are very sensitive, and I woke up laughing.
James added, “I’m really going to be late. The board is waiting. You can go back to sleep after, okay?”
I struggled to get up and went to the closet, drowsily finding his clothes and handing them to James to change.
When James finished changing and turned around, I was leaning against the cabinet in my pajamas, nodding off again.
So he carried me back to the bedroom and let me continue sleeping.
There were no dramatic events, just this kind of domestic atmosphere that, over time, grew into a sense of warmth and attachment to home.
I wasn’t the typica! pampered young lady from a wealthy family. I was actually quite independent in my thinking.
When ! studied abroad, I took good care of myself, and more impressively, I could cook.
The first time I cooked after we got married, James was truly shocked. After the first bite, he joked:
“As a qualified husband, I thought I’d have to force myself to eat and then praise you, but I never expected it to be so amazing.”
I was very happy that day.
James was actually a good cook too. Sometimes when I worked late, if James got home first, he would have dinner ready and waiting for me.
Occasionally, on the rare days when we were both home, we would cook a lavish meal together. There was just one thing–neither of us liked doing the dishes.
When we first got married, we were both polite about it. If one person cooked, the other would wash the dishes, taking turns courteously.
Later, when we became very close, we started childishly trying to shirk the responsibility.
At first, we played rock–paper–scissors. One time, the atmosphere was particularly good, with heavy rain pattering outside, making the room feel even more peaceful and cozy.
After we finished eating and drinking, we played rock–paper–scissors. When I lost, I flopped onto the sofa and refused to get up, hugging a pillow.
James came over to pull me up, and I laughed, dodging left and right. Somehow, I blurted out:
“I won’t wash them. Other people’s husbands always let their wives off the hook. You’re the great Mr. Sullivan of City A, yet you’re haggling over these little things with your own wife.”
We both froze at such intimate words.
A blush and heat quickly spread from our cheeks. I quickly turned over and got up, saying, “I’ll go wash the dishes.”
James held me back with an ambiguous smile, sighing dramatically. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or what, but his tone was very playful:
“Alright, alright. After all, I am the great Mr. Sullivan of City A. How could I quibble over such small matters with my own wife? I’ll go wash, I’ll go wash.”
That was the first time James called me his wife, albeit jokingly.
