In the first year of our marriage, we were sweet and in love. Seeing other couples fighting and quarrelling and throwing things, we felt incredible that we could still live. We felt that noisy life was far away from us.
We started fighting the second year we were married.
I broke a delicate and expensive clock, cried for 40 minutes, and then walked back to my mother’s house.
I thought, divorce!
I will not go on living with a man who has quarreled with me.
Every day after work, he would run to the unit to pick me up, take the initiative to admit his mistake, let me go home with him.
I turned a cold face neither to him, nor to go home with him.
Until half a month later, he bought a bunch of flowers to pick me up, took the initiative to accompany me to the supermarket, I count his crimes for 10 minutes, finally add a warning: if you do this again, I will never forgive you.
He was silent in agreement.
In our third year of marriage, I broke some cheap glasses and cried for 30 minutes. Then I went to a friend’s house for a few days. He called me a few times and I went home.
He cleared the ground of broken glass, but I still ignored him.
He hides in his bedroom while he eats.
He knocked on the door and said: Chicken stew gourd is ready, come out to eat.
He knocked twice and I came out to eat with him.
He told me he was wrong, was willing to correct it, and asked if I could forgive him.
My silence.
During a fight in my fourth year of marriage, I broke a pot of my own little spider plants, cried for 20 minutes, and then wandered downstairs for the day.
After returning home, see him casually sitting on the sofa first TV, the living room is still a piece of mess.
Broken leaves of the plant and pieces of its flowerpots were scattered on the floor.
I volunteered to clean it up.
He cooked dinner and sat down to eat it himself.
I filled a bowl of rice and sat across from him, arguing with him about who was right and who was wrong, but he would not confirm or deny.
During a fight in my fourth year of marriage, I broke a pot of my own little spider plants, cried for 20 minutes, and then wandered downstairs for the day.
After returning home, see him casually sitting on the sofa first TV, the living room is still a piece of mess.
Broken leaves of the plant and pieces of its flowerpots were scattered on the floor.
I volunteered to clean it up.
He cooked dinner and sat down to eat it himself.
I filled a bowl of rice and sat across from him, arguing with him about who was right and who was wrong, but he would not confirm or deny.
During a fight in my fifth year, I threw a cushion off the couch, cried for 10 minutes, and rushed from the living room to the bedroom.
No one cooked dinner.
He stood on the balcony smoking a cigarette.
I volunteered to come out of the bedroom, picked up the cushions, cooked a favorite dinner, ate, went to bed.
He went out to a restaurant for dinner. When he came back, I took the initiative to talk to him and reason with him. He said fiercely: I am not wrong!
In our sixth year of marriage, I didn’t throw anything.
Only cried for five minutes, stayed in the living room and changed his position.
He stayed out for a few days at a friend’s house.
I called him and begged him to come home.
Offer to make him a dinner he loves, serve him a meal, tell him I was wrong, willing to correct, ask him if he can forgive me.
His silence.
I didn’t cry during our seventh fight.
And quarrel in the morning, in the afternoon to admit the mistake, take the initiative to accompany him to watch the ball game.
He will my guilt for dozens of minutes, and finally add a warning: if you do this again, I will never forgive you!
I was silent, approving.
