In 1978, at the small-town post office.

Lydia Summers held the telegram tightly in her hand, frowning as she stared at the five simple words: "Let's get a divorce."

After a moment, she looked up at the clerk behind the counter.

"Comrade, is this really all it says? You're sure there's nothing else?"

The clerk glanced at it impatiently at first, then softened a bit, sounding almost sympathetic. "That's all it says—there's no mistake."

Lydia lowered her head and read it again, as if trying to make sense of it. Still, she couldn't believe it.

When she stepped out of the post office, the northern wind cut into her neck like a blade.

It was freezing.

Pulling her worn cotton coat tighter, she tugged her fur hat down low. Her pale face looked even more drained of color.

At the hospital.

She stopped outside a room where soft sobbing drifted through the door.

"Old man, you’ve got to hang in there. Our son’s on his way. Even if you go, you’ve got to see him one last time!"

At the bedside, Grace Cooper, in her sixties, gripped her husband’s hand tightly, terrified that letting go might mean losing him for good.

Lydia’s heart sank. She hesitated, then walked in.

Grace looked up as soon as she saw her. Wiping away her tears with her sleeve, she asked quickly, "Did David reply? Is he already on the way?"

Lydia looked at John Thompson, whose breathing was barely audible. She shook her head helplessly.

Grace collapsed into the chair.

Five days ago, when her husband fell gravely ill, she’d asked her daughter-in-law to send a telegram to their son in the army, hoping he could make it back to see his father one last time.

But now it looked like there wasn’t much time left.

Lydia touched the telegram in her pocket but said nothing.

That night, John Thompson passed away, still without seeing his son one last time.

Three days later, in Daliushu Village.

Grace knelt in front of her husband’s grave, crying uncontrollably.

The village chief pulled Lydia aside and handed her a few crumpled bills.

"Just a little something from all of us. It isn’t much."

Lydia didn’t even think before refusing. "Chief, we really can’t take this. The village has already done so much for us."

John Thompson’s illness had drained the family of everything, and they were deep in debt. Even the funeral costs had been covered by neighbors pulling together what they could.

"Just take it," the chief said, stuffing the money into her hand. "David can’t come back from the army. You and your mother-in-law still have to carry on. This is all we can do—after this, you’re on your own."

Lydia looked at the money in her hand, then at the folks trying to comfort Grace. Her stomach tightened.

Back home, Grace fell sick too.

Not only did she get a high fever, but she also started talking nonsense in her sleep.

Lydia rushed to get medicine from the village doctor and kept the fire on the kang burning hot.

It took until midnight, but finally the fever broke.

Exhausted, Lydia sat down by the oil lamp, her back sore and legs aching.

Wrapped in a quilt, she finally caught her breath.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled telegram.

Even now, those words still hit like a punch: Let’s get a divorce.

She and David had been married three years. She’d cared for his parents for three years. And she’d spent those same three years alone.

And now, this was all she got in return.

To hell with it! Fine—divorce it is!