He Said I Wouldn't Last Three Months

The day I signed the divorce papers, all I had left was my ID card and a bank account with triple digits. Ten years of marriage. I was twenty-two when I married him, thirty-two when I walked out. He went from a rented room to a high-rise apartment, from an electric scooter to an Audi. Me? I had a C-section scar and a three-year gap on my résumé. That was it. "The apartment is pre-marital property," he said. "My mom paid for the car. The savings—you know how business has been." I knew he was lying. But I didn't fight. When he signed, his pen hesitated on the paper. "I'm sorry," he said, without looking up. "Okay," I said. Then he added a line I'll never forget: "You won't make it three months out there. If you need anything… you can come to me." I almost laughed. Ten years, and he still thought I couldn't survive without him. I didn't look back. Walking out of the civil affairs bureau, the March wind hit me. I hadn't worn a coat. I was shivering. I stuffed the divorce certificate into my bag when my phone buzzed—a bank alert: mortgage payment failed. The apartment was his. The mortgage was ours. The divorce agreement was clear: the house was his, the debt was his problem. But the joint account? He'd emptied it the day before. I sat down on the steps of the bureau, buried my face in my arms, and didn't cry. Crying is the most useless thing in the world. --- That night, I moved into a room in an urban village. Eight hundred yuan a month. No windows. A metal-framed bed. In the corner, a half-bag of rice left by the previous tenant. I stared at that bag of rice for a long time. Then I picked up my phone and called my mother. "Mom, that chili sauce recipe you taught me—do you still remember it?" She was quiet for a moment. "I remember. What do you need it for?" "I want to sell it." She didn't ask why. She already knew. Three days later, a package arrived. Dried chilies. Sichuan peppercorns. Star anise. And a handwritten recipe on a piece of paper. The characters were cramped and uneven, some of them blurred by water stains. My mother barely finished elementary school. I'd known that handwriting my whole life. I cried when I saw it. The first time I'd cried since the divorce. --- I rented a stall near the night market. Two thousand yuan a month. "Stall" is generous. It was a tricycle with a metal griddle on top. I'd make the sauce and prep ingredients at home during the day. Set up at six in the evening. Pack up at one in the morning. I sold chow fun, lo mein, and my mother's secret chili sauce on the side. There were at least seven or eight other chow fun stalls in that night market. My only advantage was that bottle of sauce. Everyone else used industrial chili paste from the wholesale market. Mine was my mother's thirty-year-old recipe, fried in rapeseed oil. The smell alone could travel three blocks. First week: maybe a dozen servings a night. Second week: twenty-something. Third week: a man ordered five portions to-go for his coworkers. Fourth week: people started lining up at my cart. Every night I'd pack up at 1 AM, go home to wash pots, prep ingredients, and simmer the sauce until 3 AM. When I lay down, every bone in my body ached. The soles of my feet were swollen. By 9 AM, I was back at the wholesale market buying ingredients. I burned my hands on hot oil three times. The stains from the iron griddle and chili peppers never quite washed out from under my fingernails. One night, it started raining while I was pushing my cart up a slope. The wheels slipped. The cart tipped over. The sauce I'd spent hours making spilled all over the ground. I crouched in the rain, scooping it back into the bucket spoon by spoon, cursing myself the whole time: What are you even doing this for? But the next day at six, I set up again. His words were stuck in my head. *You won't make it three months.* --- It was a Friday. Eight-something in the evening. The busiest time at the night market. I was frying noodles when I noticed three people stop in front of my cart. Two women and a man. I gave my usual greeting: "What'll it be? Chow fun or lo mein? Spicy or mild?" No answer. I looked up. The man in front was wearing a dark gray coat that didn't look cheap. On his wrist was the watch I'd helped him pick out. Four thousand eight hundred yuan. When we were getting divorced, he'd told me he had no money. Chen Yu. My ex-husband. The girl on his arm was young, with carefully applied makeup and an expensive-looking jacket. She wrinkled her nose at my stall. "This place is kind of dirty. How about we go somewhere else?" Chen Yu didn't move. He was looking at me. I was looking at the scallions on my cutting board. A lot of things flashed through my head in that moment. Ten years ago, making me noodles in his rented room, saying he'd cook for me every day for the rest of our lives. Five years ago, when his company was just starting up, me sitting with my pregnant belly sorting client files until dawn. Three years ago, him coming home drunk and vomiting on the floor, me on my knees cleaning it up while he passed out on the sofa. Then the civil affairs bureau desk. *You won't make it three months.* I didn't stop moving. Tossed the noodles. Added seasoning. Packed them up. "Here you go, sir. Extra chili and sauce. Fifteen yuan." He looked at me. His throat moved. "Long time no see." "Scan to pay or cash?" I said. The silence hung there. The girl must have sensed something. She tugged his sleeve. "You know her?" Chen Yu didn't answer. He pulled out his phone and scanned the QR code on my cart. Fifteen yuan. "One order of chow fun. No scallions. Extra spicy." He remembered. And I remembered that he remembered. I nodded and didn't say anything else. Turned on the fire. Heated the oil. Tossed in the noodles. Neither of us spoke. When he took the bowl, his fingers lingered on the paper container for two seconds. Then he left. About five steps away, I heard the girl ask, "Is that your ex-wife?" He didn't answer. --- That fifteen yuan. I took a screenshot of the payment record and saved it to an album I'd named "New Life." That album also had the recipe my mother sent me, the first photo of my rented room, the spilled sauce from the night my cart overturned, and a screenshot of my first month earning over ten thousand yuan. I don't know why I saved that screenshot. Maybe to remind myself that the same hands that once spent money on me were now paying for noodles I made. It wasn't satisfying, exactly. Just… quietly confirming something. After that night, Chen Yu came by twice more. Once he brought his mother—my former mother-in-law. The old woman took one bite of the chow fun and looked at me like she wanted to say something. I didn't make it awkward. I gave her an extra spoonful of chili sauce. The other time he came alone. Almost midnight. I was about to close up. He stood by my cart and watched me scrub the griddle and load the oil drum onto the tricycle. "Let me help you," he said. "No." "Where are you living now?" "Not far." "Look… I know you're doing well now. I—" "Chen Yu," I cut him off. "I sell two hundred servings a night. Fifteen yuan each. After ingredients and the stall fee, I take home about twenty thousand a month. That accounting job you used to say was 'barely enough to support us'—what was it, fifteen thousand a month?" His face went blank. I tied down the rope on my tricycle and brushed the dust off my hands. "Don't worry about me. I'm doing fine." He stood there under the streetlight. His shadow stretched long, just like it had the day we walked out of the civil affairs bureau. Only this time, I was the one standing still. --- When I rented a storefront, the landlord asked what I planned to do. "Still chow fun," I said. "But I'm putting up a sign." "What's it called?" "Three Months." He thought I was joking. Now the shop sits at the entrance of the night market. Red sign, white characters: **Three Months.** The line wraps around the corner every day. The menu is simple: chow fun, lo mein, sour-spicy rice noodles. Every table gets a free bottle of the secret chili sauce. A few days ago, a girl walked in with her phone and started filming while she ate. She said she was a food blogger, that my chili sauce tasted like her grandmother's cooking, and asked if she could make a video about the place. I said sure. The video got nine million views in three days. People commented that the chili sauce tasted like their mother's cooking. That the forty-minute wait was worth it. That the owner's story was inspiring. And at the very bottom, there was a comment from an account called "Y.C." Just three words: "I'm sorry." I stared at those three words for a long time. Then I put down my phone and walked into the kitchen. The chilies for tomorrow still needed to be chopped. The line was still forming outside. Life was still moving forward. I never replied to that comment. His words from a year ago—I waited a whole year to answer them. But I'd already decided I didn't need to tell him. Whether he lines up or not, I'll be right here.