I Funded His Dream, He Funded Her Life

My name is Amelia Zimmerman, and I'm thirty years old. Casper Johnson and I have been together for a full ten years. He's six years younger than me. When I met him, I had just graduated and started working, while he was still a minor in high school. The first time I saw him was at the bubble tea shop by the school gate, wearing a blue-and-white uniform, surrounded and shoved around by a bunch of boys. On an impulse, I walked over, pulled him behind me, and called the police. That evening's sunset stretched his shadow long, and he grabbed the corner of my shirt, saying, "Amelia, I'll protect you from now on." Later, he got into the university here in my city and confessed to me, clutching a bunch of crumpled roses. The light in his eyes was so bright, I couldn't resist—I nodded. Over ten years, I watched him grow from an awkward boy into a sharp-dressed young man. When he was short on funds starting his business, I mortgaged the house my parents left me to scrape together his startup capital. He said the company was just starting up and he didn't have time to cook, so I got up two hours earlier every day to bring lunch to his office building. He always said I was his emotional anchor, the only woman he ever wanted to marry. There was just one thing he never budged on. Every time we were intimate, I brought up using protection, but he'd frown and say it felt uncomfortable. "Amelia, wearing that feels like there's a barrier — it kills the feeling." I worried about accidental pregnancy, but he cupped my face and promised me. "Don't worry. If it really happens, we'll get married—I mean what I say." He said that sentence for five years. That Christmas night, I stood outside the apartment building holding the pregnancy test, my fingertips trembling. Two bright red lines, so clear they nearly blinded me. I bought his favorite cake and even picked out a pair of rings engraved with the initials of our names. He said there was a company dinner tonight at a bar downtown. I arrived at the bar half an hour early, hoping to surprise him. The winter night wind was biting cold, so I wrapped my scarf tighter, the pregnancy test warm from my body heat in my arms. The neon lights outside the bar were so bright they made my eyes ache. Then I spotted Casper Johnson. He was leaning against a white sports car, holding a young girl in his arms. She wore a pink mini skirt, her hair dyed light brown, and when she smiled, two faint dimples appeared. Casper lowered his head and kissed her, so tender it almost seemed to drip. The kiss went on for so long the cake box in my hands got crushed out of shape. "Well, isn't this Casper's girlfriend?" A guy with dyed blond hair walked over, his voice full of sarcasm. I recognized him; he's a partner at Casper Johnson Company, the one who used to always call me "Amelia" along with Casper. "You're already thirty and still chasing after Casper, Amelia, you've got some serious persistence." Another guy wearing glasses joined in the jeering, "What girlfriend? Casper already told us—she's just a free housekeeper." "Chasing after" and "free housekeeper." Those words stabbed into my ears like needles.