The Poor Author

My name's Susan Scott, and I'm twenty-seven. I've been with Yale Shawn for five years, and during all that time, my life pretty much revolved around him. People always called me 'foolish'—saying I gave up a stable life just to support a 'talented but unrecognized' author. Every time I heard that, I'd just smile and never argue. They had no idea how much I once believed in the ‘dream' I saw in his eyes. Back then, he said he wanted to be a screenwriter, to write stories that truly move people. Looking into his eyes, I felt like no hardship or exhaustion mattered at all. To let Yale Shawn focus on writing his script, I worked as a cashier at the supermarket during the day, standing from eight in the morning until six in the evening. The checkout counters at the supermarket were always packed. Scanning items, taking money, giving change—I repeated the same routine hundreds of times every day. By night, the backs of my heels ached and swelled so much that I didn't even want to walk. But even so, at night I still rode my electric scooter to tutoring gigs, helping ninth graders with math until ten at night. In winter, the wind cut into my face like a knife, and my hands froze so badly I couldn't grip the scooter handlebars. I'd stuff a hand warmer in my pocket, but by the time I got to the student's place, my hands were still numb, and I had to rub them for a long while before I could start the lesson. Every day when I get back to our rented room, the first thing I do isn't rest—it's head straight to the kitchen. The sink's always piled with dishes from the day before, grease stuck to the ceramic walls, hardened into a thick layer that makes me soak them in hot water forever and then scrub like crazy with steel wool to get them clean. Sometimes, while soaking the dishes, I lean against the kitchen doorframe to catch my breath, staring at the light still on in the living room, thinking he must've written a bunch again today. Yale Shawn usually sits on the old sofa in the living room with a secondhand laptop in front of him, the screen showing a blank document. When he saw me come home, he'd look up and smile—a gentle smile that felt like it could wash away all the tiredness from my day. He said, "Susan, you finally came back. I've got a new spark of inspiration today." Every time I heard that, it made me really happy, like all my hard work wasn't for nothing. I believed him. I believed him for a full five years. During those five years, no matter what he said, I never once doubted him. I'd bring him reheated leftovers and pour him a cup of wine—he said wine sparked his creativity, so I kept that in mind and bought it for him every time I got paid. He was drinking while telling me about the script's plot, his eyes shining with excitement, his hands moving like he could really write a masterpiece that would last forever. I sat beside him, listening without blinking, convinced he was definitely going to make it big one day. Once, when I got paid, I bought him a fountain pen that cost over three hundred. I had saved up for half a month, eating only steamed buns and pickles at lunch every day, just to surprise him. He held the pen, eyes red, voice catching: "Susan, once I win the best writer award, I'll buy you a diamond ring—the biggest one there is." That night, I was so excited I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned in bed, my mind filled with images of him receiving the award, feeling like all the hard work had finally paid off. Then last month, my period didn't come. At first, I didn't think much of it—I just figured I was too tired. But after a few more days still nothing, I started to get a little scared. When I went to the hospital for a checkup, my palms were sweaty, and I didn't even dare to breathe too deeply. The doctor smiled and said, "Congratulations, you're six weeks pregnant." Holding the Prenatal Checkup Form, my hands were shaking as my mind raced with the thought of surprising Yale Shawn. I figured he knew that once we had a baby, he'd work even harder on his script. From then on, we'd be a family of three. I took time off from the supermarket in advance, then swung by the liquor store to buy the ten-year-aged wine he loves. That bottle cost over two hundred—that's half a month's rent for me. But I didn't mind. Standing there in the liquor store with the bottle in my hand, I pictured Yale Shawn's face when he saw the prenatal checkup form and the wine—I couldn't stop the corner of my mouth from lifting into a smile. I thought that once we had the baby, our life would only get better. As I walked downstairs to the rented room, I was still trying to figure out how to start the conversation when I heard a familiar voice.