Sixty Days, Three Provinces, and a Rediscovered Self

I have been married to Old Li for thirty-two years. We struggled through our youth with nothing to our names, working until we finally had a house, a car, and a son who is now married with his own career. Last year, I officially retired. I thought I’d finally get to enjoy some peace—tending to flowers, joining the "square dancers" in the park, or hitting the shops with my old girlfriends. But as it turns out, fate wasn't ready to let me settle down.

I discovered it myself. I suppose I only have my own restless hands to blame. One day, while Old Li was showering, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. I’m not the type to pry; in thirty-two years, I’d never touched his phone. But that day, the message preview on the lock screen caught my eye: "Brother Li, thank you for keeping me company last night."

Just those few words made my head spin.

I told myself not to overthink it. Maybe it was a polite colleague or an old classmate. But my hands wouldn't listen. I picked up the phone, tried his birthday as the passcode, and it clicked open. As I scrolled up the chat, the intimate words felt like needles in my eyes. "Miss you," "Waiting for you," and a selfie of a woman in her early forties with dyed brownish-yellow hair and a face full of wrinkles when she smiled.

By the time Old Li came out of the bathroom, I had put the phone back. I sat on the sofa staring at the TV, though I couldn't tell you a single thing that was on the screen. Drying his hair, he asked if I’d eaten. I said yes. He mentioned the stock market was down. I just said, "Oh." He didn't notice anything was wrong because I’ve always been a woman of few words.

I didn't sleep that night. Lying next to him, listening to his snoring, my mind played back the last thirty-two years like a movie. I remembered when we first married and he’d take me to work on the back of his bicycle; I’d be shivering in the winter cold, and he’d wrap his own scarf around me. I remembered him weeping outside the delivery room when our son was born, vowing he’d always do right by us. I remembered when he was laid off; he drank in silence for years while I worked two jobs to keep us afloat until he could stand on his own feet again.

Did he have no sense of how I’d treated him all these years?

Tears soaked into my pillow. I turned over, putting my back to him.

The next morning, I made breakfast as usual—porridge, steamed buns, and stir-fried potato shreds. He ate heartily and even complimented the potatoes. I looked at him and felt he was a complete stranger. After thirty-two years together, I suddenly didn't know who he was.

In the days that followed, I didn't cause a scene. Even as a young woman, I was never the type to "cry to the heavens and wail to the earth." I prefer to process things internally. I wondered: What should I do? If I confront him and he begs for forgiveness, do I give it? And if he doesn't ask for it—if he says he wants to be with her—where would I hide my face after thirty-two years?

Making a scene is the most useless thing you can do. Once the shouting is over, you still have to face the reality.

After thinking for about a week, I made a decision: I was going to travel. Not out of spite, and not to run away. I just needed to leave this environment, leave this person, and be alone to think clearly.

I told Old Li I was going on a trip with some old girlfriends. He didn't ask questions. He told me to go and have fun, then transferred 5,000 yuan to my account. Looking at the notification, I didn't know how to feel. In the past, when he sent me money, I felt cherished. Now? Was it guilt or a guilty conscience?

I didn't accept the transfer.

My first stop was Dali, Yunnan. We’d talked about going there since we were young, but thirty years passed and we never went. Now, I was going alone.

I arrived in Dali in the afternoon. The sun was brilliant, and the sky was an impossibly deep blue. I booked a guesthouse by Erhai Lake. The courtyard was quiet, and the owner, a woman in her thirties, asked why I was traveling alone. I told her my "Old Companion" was too busy to come. She smiled and didn't push.

I dropped my bags and walked by the lake. The wind was strong, blowing my hair into a mess. Young couples were taking photos; a girl in a white dress was smiling so sweetly. I watched them for a long time, remembering how much I loved white dresses in my twenties. Old Li used to say I looked best in white. After the baby came and I gained weight, I never wore one again.

For a few days, I went nowhere. I just sat by Erhai, watching the water, the clouds, and the people passing by. For the first two days, my mind was a mess, looping over the same betrayals. On the third afternoon, an elderly lady in her seventies sat near me, carrying a camera to photograph the seagulls. She told me her husband had passed away three years ago; they used to come to Dali every year, and this year she came alone.

She said, "Young lady, while a couple can still be together, cherish it."

I just smiled and didn't reply. I thought to myself: Cherishing is a two-way street. What use is it if I’m the only one doing the cherishing?

I spent ten days in Yunnan, visiting Dali, Lijiang, and Shangri-La. The altitude in Shangri-La gave me a splitting headache. I spent a whole day in the hotel, unable to move. Lying there alone, I realized if I wanted a cup of hot water, I had to crawl out of bed and boil it myself. In that moment, I wanted to cry—not out of self-pity, but out of a deep sense of injustice. I had spent thirty-two years serving Old Li, caring for his parents, and raising his son. In the end, what was my reward?

But I didn't cry. It feels like I haven't cried much my whole life. My mother taught me that crying solves nothing.

When I returned from Yunnan, I stayed home for two days. Old Li asked how the trip was; I said it was fine. He noticed my tan and asked why I didn't wear sunscreen. I told him I forgot. That night, he cooked my favorite sweet and sour pork ribs and opened a bottle of red wine. He said he’d join me on a trip next year after he retired. I said, "Sure."

During those two days, I saw another message from that woman. This time, he wasn't in the shower; he was in the bathroom, and the phone was on the dining table. I glanced at it. It was short: "Brother Li, miss you. When are you coming?"

I put a piece of rib in my mouth. It was sweet and sour, but I suddenly felt nauseous.

Two days later, I left again. This time to Guizhou. I joined one of those "Silver Hair" tour groups—a bus full of retired seniors. It was lively. One older sister in the group was a real chatterbox; seeing I was alone, she kept pulling me into conversation. She asked why my husband hadn't come. I told her he wasn't retired yet and couldn't get away. She said traveling alone must be boring. I told her it was actually quite nice.

The mountain roads in Guizhou were rough on my back. I saw the Huangguoshu Waterfall and felt the cool mist on my face. I visited the Miao Village and saw the "ten thousand lights" at night—it was breathtaking. That chatterbox sister kept dragging me into photos, insisting I pose with a silk scarf. I told her I didn't like taking pictures. She told me I was "no fun."

It wasn't that I was no fun; it was just that with a heart full of heavy thoughts, I couldn't force a smile.

On the seventh day in Guizhou, Old Li called. He asked when I was coming back, saying the toilet was clogged and he didn't know what to do. I told him to call a plumber. He said he’d tried, but they wanted an 80-yuan call-out fee, which he thought was too expensive. I actually laughed out loud. He didn't mind spending money on that woman, but he thought 80 yuan to fix his own home was a rip-off.

I told him to call property management; they’re cheaper.

After I hung up, the talkative sister asked what was wrong. I said the toilet was clogged. She asked, "How can your husband not know how to fix that? My husband can fix anything." I replied, "Mine used to, too. He’s just gotten lazy."

It wasn't laziness, though. His heart just wasn't in this home anymore.

When I returned from Guizhou, Old Li met me at the station. He’d lost weight and his hair was long; he looked a bit disheveled. On the way home, he complained he’d been eating nothing but noodles and asked if I’d stew some ribs for him. I looked at him—fifty-seven years old, gray at the temples, bags under his eyes. He looked pitiful.

But I knew in my heart: a pitiful person often has a hateful side.

I stayed home for three days. I stewed the ribs, made dumplings, and took out his seasonal clothes to wash and sun-dry. He was happy, saying a home really needs a woman. In the past, I would have taken that as a compliment. Now, it just tasted bitter.

I watched him during those three days. He never let go of his phone. He took it to the toilet; he took it into the shower. He never used to be like that. He used to leave it anywhere and ask me to call it when he lost it. Now? "A thief has a guilty heart"—the old saying is true.

I didn't ask him anything, and I didn't check his phone again. I’d already seen enough. Looking again would just be looking for more pain.

For my third trip, I went to Zhejiang—to Wuzhen and Xitang. The "water towns" of the south, with their little bridges and flowing rivers, were nothing like my northern city. I booked a room by the river. When I opened the window, the water was right there. Black-canopied boats passed by, the old rowers singing songs I couldn't understand but whose melodies were beautiful.

This time, I went alone without a tour group. During the day, I wandered aimlessly through the ancient towns, looking at old houses and tasting local snacks. At night, I sat by the river with a cup of tea, watching the lanterns reflect in the water, swaying in the breeze. My heart felt exceptionally still. I didn't think about anything; I just felt that life, in itself, was actually quite good.

On my fourth day in Wuzhen, I was buying a blue calico scarf. The shop owner, a woman in her fifties, was very chatty. She asked if I wasn't bored traveling alone. I said no, it’s peaceful. She said she lived alone too, having been divorced for eight years because her ex-husband found someone younger. She smiled as she told me, as if she were talking about someone else's life.

I asked her, "Do you hate him?"

She said, "What's the point of hate? Life goes on whether you hate or not. Why should I waste my time on it? I’m fine on my own. I open my shop when I want, close it when I want. No one controls me."

Her words stayed with me. She was right. Life passes regardless. I could hate Old Li, but he wouldn't know, and even if he did, would he care? If he truly cared, he wouldn't have done what he did.

After five days in Wuzhen, I went to Xitang. It was smaller and quieter. I rented a bicycle and rode along the river, sitting on stone benches when I got tired. An old lady was selling water caltrops by the water. I bought a pound and sat there peeling them. They were crisp and slightly sweet.

She asked where I was from. "The North," I said. "Are you alone?" she asked. I said yes. "Where’s your Old Companion?" I told her he was at home. "Why didn't he come?" I said he didn't like traveling. She sighed, "Ah, men are all like that. Mine doesn't like going out either; he just wants to watch TV at home."

I just smiled and stayed silent.

On my last night in Xitang, I sat by the river and drank some rice wine. It wasn't "drinking to drown my sorrows"—it was just the sweet, low-alcohol wine they sell in the local shops. As I drank, it suddenly clicked.

What did I realize? It wasn't about whether to forgive him or not. It was about realizing what I wanted for myself.

I want a dignified old age. I don't want to "just get by" with someone who betrayed me, nor do I want to make a scene and become the neighborhood joke. I don't want to forgive him, but I don't want to revenge myself either. I just want to live my own life well.

In those sixty days, I traveled through three provinces alone. I saw Erhai, the great waterfalls, and the ancient water towns. I ate things I’d never tried, met so many people, and took so many photos. I discovered that I can live perfectly well on my own. I don't need to serve anyone or walk on eggshells. I can go when I want and stop when I want.

To be honest, it felt wonderful.

I returned home after sixty days. Old Li was there, watching TV and eating instant noodles. The house was a pigsty. When he saw me, he jumped up. "You’re finally back! I’ve been eating instant noodles every day." I didn't answer. I changed my shoes, dragged my suitcase into the bedroom, and started unpacking.

He followed me in. "Are you mad at me?" I said no. "Then why were you gone so long? You barely said a word when I called." I told him I was busy having fun.

He stood in the doorway, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't. I saw his reflection in the mirror and realized he looked like a child who knew he’d done wrong but didn't know how to apologize. Maybe he knew I found out; maybe he’d guessed. But neither of us pierced that thin "window paper" of silence.

When I finished unpacking, I sat on the bed and said one thing to him: "Old Li, I realized something on this trip. I’ve done right by you and this family my whole life. From now on, I’m going to live the way I want to live. If you’re okay with that, we’ll carry on. If not, I won't stop you from leaving."

He was stunned and didn't speak for a long time. Then he sat down beside me, lowered his head, and whispered, "I understand."

I didn't ask what he understood, and he didn't say more. That night, I cooked four dishes: braised ribs, steamed fish, garlic broccoli, and tomato egg soup. He ate two bowls of rice and, for the first time in our marriage, took the initiative to wash the dishes without being asked. Usually, he’d just slump onto the sofa and leave the mess to me.

After the dishes, he watched TV and I sat nearby knitting a sweater. Neither of us mentioned it, but it felt like everything had been said.

It’s been three months since I came back. Old Li has changed. He doesn't carry his phone everywhere anymore; sometimes he leaves it on the table while he goes to the kitchen. I occasionally glance at the lock screen—no more messages from that woman. He’s started learning to cook; he’s not good at it, but at least he’s trying. On weekends, he offers to go for walks with me, even if it’s just to the local park.

I don't know if he’s cut her off completely, and I don't know if he’ll stray again. To be honest, I don't want to investigate, and I don't want to ask. At this age, some truths only exist to make your life harder.

I haven't forgiven him. I’ve simply set myself free.

Those sixty days taught me one thing: a woman cannot pin all her hopes on a man. You must have your own life and your own joy. Even if you are alone, you can make your life "steaming with warmth."

I still go on trips, though not for sixty days at a time—usually just weekend getaways nearby. Sometimes I go alone, sometimes with friends. If Old Li wants to come, he comes; if not, I don't force it.

The days are the same, but my heart is different.

To any "sisters" reading this—no matter your age, no matter what happens, don't wrong yourself. You are yourself first, and only then are you someone’s wife or someone’s mother. Living your own life well is more powerful than anything else.