My name is Theresa, and I am sixty-three years old.
I’ve been a widow since I was young, and I raised my only son, Marcus, entirely on my own.
He was smart, gentle, and handsome. Everyone said he had a great future. And it seemed like he did.
At twenty-one, he told me he had married Li Mei, a Chinese woman who was already fifty years old.
I opposed it — not out of prejudice, but because of the age gap, the distance, and the way everything happened so fast.
But my son was stubborn.
There was a determination in his eyes that I had no power to change.
They had a simple ceremony.
A month later, he left with her for China.
At the airport, he hugged me and cried.
I cried too, but in silence.
I thought he would return in a few years.
He never did.
One year passed.
Then two.
Then five.
I stopped asking.
Only the money kept coming — every year, exactly eighty thousand dollars, with a short message:
“Mom, take good care of yourself. I’m doing well.”
That word — well — was what worried me most.
We had a video call once.
He was still handsome, but his eyes weren’t the same.
Always tired.
Always in a hurry.
Always distant.
I asked why he didn’t come home.
He went quiet, then said:
“I’m very busy, Mom.”
