After my dad passed, I decided to divorce my husband, the Major, and stay in this little mountain town for good.

Day one, I tricked Mark into signing the divorce papers.

Day five, I handed in my resignation at the old job.

Day seven, I cooked a big farewell dinner for all my friends.

Mark frowned, asking why I'd made dishes Sarah didn't even like.

I stood up and toasted his childhood sweetheart.

From that day forward, Mark was no longer my concern.

Two weeks later, I saw Mark in the village, back from a mission.

This time, though, the country evening wind brought tears to his eyes.

The third day after Dad died, Mark still hadn't shown.

"Mayor, I've made up my mind. I want to carry on Dad's legacy and stay here to teach the kids."

I told the mayor with all the determination I had while packing.

The man looked surprised, trying to talk me out of it:

"Honey, you finally got stationed with your husband. Why come back to this poor place to suffer?"

I shook my head, glancing at the old watch on my wrist, Dad's keepsake.

"I'm not afraid of hardship. Give me a week, and I'll file for divorce."

Seven p.m. rolls around, and I finally get home to our place near the base.

The food's still on the table, just like I left it.

Barely put down my suitcase before hearing footsteps outside.

Mark walks in, tall and trim in his green uniform, sounding cold:

"Is there any food left? The mess hall is closed. Can you heat it up and pack it for me? I'm taking it to Sarah."

"She's been sick the last couple of days and can't cook."

I turned around, my face showing the exhaustion:

"I just got back. I didn't make anything."

Mark frowned a bit, didn't ask where I'd been or seem to care about my fatigue.

He heads straight to the kitchen after getting my answer.

His mind's all about his first love's well-being at the moment.

I stood there watching him fumble with frying an egg.

Five years married, and this is the first time he's ever cooked.

After putting the noodles in a metal lunchbox, Mark tried to get past me, but I blocked his way.

"I need to go back home in a few days. Can you sign this application so I can get a travel permit?"

I pulled out the incomplete divorce papers, pointing to the blank space for him to sign.

Mark paused, signing without even looking.

"Sarah's been sick, so I don't have time. I'll go with you after she gets better."

I lowered my eyes, hiding the burning tears.

"Okay."

Brushing past, I caught a whiff of his snow cream scent.

The one I can't afford, but his first love uses it all the time.

Once the gate closed behind him, I walked stiffly to the table and carefully folded the papers.

A week ago, the mayor called, saying Dad had a stroke while teaching and was in the hospital.

I panicked, ran home, and grabbed Mark as he was heading out.

"Can you come home with me? Dad, he..."

Before I could finish, Sarah's voice called from outside:

"Mark, hurry up! You promised to take me shopping."

Hearing her voice, Mark immediately lost patience, snatched his hand away, and left, leaving me with a single sentence.

"I'm busy. Go back first, and I'll find time to come and see you."

That "some time" stretched to seven days.

I didn't see Mark until after Dad's funeral.

I only had my dad's last words of advice while holding my hand before closing his eyes:

"Mark's a good kid, protecting the country. He's supposed to be busy."

"I don't blame him. Don't argue with him when you go back."

But Dad, Mark was busy not because of work, but because he was with Sarah.

Wiping away the tears, I cleaned up the dishes and put them away.

Countdown to leaving.