A Whole Page of Spring Wind, Not One Word Is Mine

1: 1

Six years married, and my husband never once forgot my birthday or my sister's.

He was always traveling, somewhere across the world for work.

Every time he came home, he brought us two navy notebooks, identical on the outside.

I had always believed that meant he treated us the same.

Until this year, when the bookshop mixed up the shipment.

The one I received had a cover of vegetable-tanned leather he'd brought back from Italy.

Its pages held washi paper from Boston, papyrus from Cairo, and photograph after photograph, each one labeled with where it had come from.

On the flyleaf, in his own hand, he had written:

"To seeing the whole world with you."

I called to ask, and the clerk said:

"Mr. James brings us different materials every year and asks us to bind them into a journal for Ms. Nadia Matthews."

"The other is our standard model. He ordered six of them at once."

So it turned out he couldn't be bothered to choose something new each year.

He had already bought my next six birthdays wholesale.

That evening, Neal James came home.

I set both notebooks on the table.

"Which one is mine?"

He picked up the plain one without thinking and handed it to me.

"This one. You don't like anything fussy or over-decorated, remember?"

I opened Nadia's thick travel journal, and all at once I understood.

It wasn't that he had no time to put his heart into it.

It was that his world had never once thought to bring me along.

When Neal pushed the plain notebook across the table toward me, I didn't take it.

It skidded over the surface and knocked over the gift box beside it.

He glanced at me.

"What's wrong?"

I opened the custom journal and turned the flyleaf toward him.

"Did you write this?"

Neal's eyes swept over the line. His expression didn't change.

"The bookshop mixed up the delivery. I'll have them switch it back tomorrow."

I held the page down.

"I asked you. Did you write it or not?"

He finally looked up.

"Willow Matthews, it's your birthday. Are you really going to make this into a fight over two notebooks?"

I asked, "Then where's mine? What did you write for me?"

Neal was quiet for a moment.

"What would you even do with that?"

I smiled a little.

"But Nadia would do something with it?"

His tone dropped.

"She's a journaling influencer. Millions of followers are waiting for her next post. She's launching a new travel series next week. Those materials were always meant for her."

The dinner I'd made was still on the table.

He'd just gotten back from overseas. I knew he was particular about food and had a bad stomach.

So I'd come home early on purpose and cooked his favorite, sweet-and-sour glazed ribs.

Now the food had gone cold.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Nadia.

She'd sent a photo of the plain notebook.

Beside it were the stickers she had ready for her livestream.

"Neal, did the bookshop get it wrong? This one looks like it's Willow's."

Neal replied right away.

"Yours is with her. I'll bring it back."

Nadia sent a voice message next.

"She won't take it the wrong way, will she? Or just let her keep it. I know those materials are the theme of my next video, but my little sister being happy matters more."

Neal listened to it, then looked at me.

"Your sister is still thinking of you."

I stared at him.

"Would she really be willing to give this one to me?"

He frowned.

"Willow, why do you always assume the worst about people?"

That was the first time I learned that a single question from me was enough to make me the one who was always against my sister.

I pulled out the photos tucked between the pages.

A caf on a corner in Rome.

An old paper stall in a Cairo market.

Red maple leaves outside a temple in Boston.

All these years, every time he came back from a trip, I would ask him what he'd seen.

His answer was always the same.

"Nothing much."

So it wasn't that he hadn't seen any of it.

He'd simply never thought to tell me.

I asked, "Do you even know what kind of notebook I like?"

Neal looked at the plain one on the table.

"Navy. Simple. Nothing extra on it."

"Who told you that?"

"You take it every year and never once said you didn't like it."

Our first year married, he gave me this same notebook.

I noticed Nadia's had thicker paper and a softer cover.

But back then I was afraid he'd think I was petty, so all I said was that it looked lovely.

Every year after, he gave me the same one.

So being understanding once meant I never needed to be understood again.

Neal got up and came over.

"Stop this. Tomorrow I'll have the bookshop bind a new one for you."

I pulled away from his hand.

"Don't bother."

A flicker of impatience crossed his face.

"It's just a journal. What more do you want?"

The doorbell rang right then.

Neal opened the door.

Nadia stood outside, the plain notebook cradled in her arms.

Her makeup was flawless, as if she'd just come off a livestream.

"Willow, I came to swap the notebook."

She handed me the plain one, but her eyes stayed on the custom journal on the table.

"Neal spent so long collecting those materials. Still, if you really love it, I can let you have it."

Neal stood behind her.

"Nadia came all this way herself. Don't embarrass her."

I looked down at the flyleaf.

I tore the page out.

Neal's face went cold.

"Willow, what has gotten into you?"

I ripped the page in half and shoved it back inside the journal.

Then I dropped both notebooks into the cardboard box together.

"If they were both sent wrong, then neither of us gets one."

Nadia's eyes went red at once.

She turned and left.

Neal didn't go after her, but he didn't say another word to me all night.

Before bed, he stood in the bedroom doorway.

"When you've calmed down, we'll talk."

2: 2

The next morning, Neal set the car keys down in front of me.

"Nadia's right hand's gone numb. She's got a follow-up today."

"You take her."

My hands stilled over the files I was sorting.

"I have the final review for my translation this morning."

That manuscript. I'd spent two years on it.

Today was the first time I'd present it under my own name.

Neal only said, "Reschedule."

"The organizers waited three months for me."

"She works with her hands. It can't wait."

I looked at him.

"She has an assistant."

His face darkened.

"Willow, when did you get so cold?"

I nearly laughed out loud.

Last year I ran a high fever while he was in a meeting in Geneva, and all he did was have the driver drop off some medicine.

Later, when my stomach bled, he rushed off to be with Nadia for a brand shoot and told me to get myself to the hospital.

Now Nadia just had a follow-up.

And if I didn't go, I was the heartless one.

My mother's call came almost right away.

"If something's really wrong with your sister's hand, how is she supposed to keep her journal going? Why haven't you left yet?"

I asked, "Mom, yesterday was my birthday too. Do you remember?"

She paused.

"Didn't Neal give you a notebook? Your sister needs looking after more. Don't fight over everything."

The call ended.

Neal pushed the keys forward.

"Give your materials to my assistant."

"That's my translation."

"It's a few pages of text. It doesn't matter who hands it in."

I pushed the keys back.

"It does matter."

He dialed right there.

"Director Donaldson, Willow won't be at the final review today. Please cancel the meeting."

I shot to my feet.

"Neal!"

He hung up.

"Can we go now?"

That translation came from a woman writer whose work had been lost for years.

I'd gone through hundreds of old journals to fill in the missing pages.

The organizers had promised that if it passed the final review, the cover would carry my name for the first time.

And Neal gave it up for me in a single sentence.

Nadia happened to call right then.

"Neal, is your sister not willing? Never mind, I'll go by myself."

Neal looked at me.

"She'll go."

I asked, "If the one with the sore hand today were me, would you do the same?"

He frowned.

"Your health has always been fine."

"So my things just get shoved aside?"

He picked up his coat.

"Don't put it so harshly."

At the hospital, the doctor said it was only mild tendonitis, that a few days' rest would fix it.

Neal breathed easier, then adjusted the wrist brace on Nadia's hand.

It was the custom one he'd brought back from Switzerland.

Last year he'd given me one too, a domestic brand.

Mine came apart at the seams after three uses.

He said products like that were all the same.

So it turned out the difference had been there all along.

Nadia suggested going out to eat, to make up for the birthday.

Neal asked her what she wanted.

My phone lit up at the same moment.

A message from Director Donaldson.

"Willow, I'm sorry. Your feature slot has already been given to another project team."

I put my phone away.

"You two go."

Neal frowned.

"Now what?"

I'd just turned to leave when Nadia called after me.

"Oh, right. That slot of yours. Director Donaldson said it was a shame to leave it empty."

She rubbed the hand in the wrist brace.

"My travel journal series happens to need a display spot, so he told me to bring it over today."

3: 3

By the time I reached the book fair, Nadia's travel journal was already sitting in the main display area.

The custom planner rested inside a glass case.

Beside it were her new stickers and craft papers.

The display card read Nadia Matthews.

The feature slot that had been mine was right here.

Glen Donaldson looked uncomfortable when he saw me.

"Mr. James contacted the organizers himself. I had no choice but to make the adjustment."

"Where are my sample copies?"

He led me to the archive room.

The box holding my translation had been shoved into a corner.

One corner of the cover was folded over, and a few pages of proofs lay scattered on the floor.

"Things got jumbled when they moved the display tables. Just reprint them."

I picked the pages up off the floor.

The annotations on them were all handwritten.

Some of those sources had taken me two years to track down.

You couldn't get them back by running the pages through a printer again.

Nadia arrived soon after.

Neal followed behind her.

She saw the box and asked softly, "How did it end up like this?"

Neal looked at me.

"This is your translation?"

"Mm."

Nadia's face filled with apology.

"Why didn't you say something sooner? I thought you were just helping the publisher organize materials."

Neal frowned too.

"You never mentioned it seriously before."

"Three months ago, I told you the organizers were giving me my own feature slot."

He thought about it.

"Nadia was negotiating the collaboration that day. I thought you were just sitting in."

"So my things never counted as anything real?"

"Stop comparing everything to your sister."

I wasn't comparing myself to her.

I only wanted my own name to appear on my own work.

Nadia took my hand.

"I'm sorry. Do you want me to give the slot back to you?"

As she leaned in, she lowered her voice. "But Neal sponsored this section for me."

I pulled my hand back.

Neal's face darkened.

"She's already willing to give way. What more do you want?"

Nadia's eyes reddened.

"Forget it. It's all my fault."

Neal moved to shield her at once.

"Don't cry."

The care he gave her was always concrete.

Finding materials.

Buying the display space.

Standing between her and every doubt.

When it was my turn, all I got was a soft "Don't make a fuss."

The new-product showcase started soon after.

Neal warned me, "There are reporters here today. Put away your little mood."

I picked up the box.

"I'm taking the translation with me."

He glanced at the sample copies.

"It's in that state already. It won't look good carried out there."

The main display area was packed.

Nadia stood on the stage showing off her journal.

Someone asked where her inspiration came from.

She smiled and looked toward Neal.

"Someone brings me back a small piece of the world every time he travels for work."

Applause rose from the crowd.

A reporter recognized me.

"Did Mrs. James take part too?"

Nadia said with a smile, "My sister does translation and proofreading. She doesn't really like being in front of the camera."

Someone added, "So she helped out behind the scenes."

The translation I'd spent two years putting together, dismissed as irrelevant in a single sentence of hers.

Neal came over.

"Go wait in the car first."

"Why?"

"Don't make things hard for Nadia."

I looked at him.

"It's hard for me too."

He froze.

Just then a staff member came running over.

"A pipe burst in the archive room. The books in there are all soaked."

I rushed over.

The water had already risen past the bottom of the box.

My handwritten translation was soaking in it.

The ink was bleeding out, page by page.

4: 4

I dragged the box out of the water.

The bottom had already gone soft.

The stack of manuscript pages at the very bottom was soaked through, the ink spreading along the grain of the paper.

A few photocopies of old journals had stuck together, ready to crumble at the slightest pull.

Neal rushed in.

He saw the water all over the floor, but the first thing out of his mouth was,

"Where's Nadia's sample?"

I held the box and didn't turn around.

Nadia stood in the doorway and said quietly, "Mine are all in the front hall. They didn't get wet."

Neal visibly relaxed.

Director Donaldson apologized over and over.

"The pipe was old, nobody could have predicted this. We'll compensate you!"

Neal looked at me.

"Whatever it costs, I'll take care of it."

I asked, "And what exactly are you going to compensate me for?"

He stopped.

I pulled a page out of the box.

The notes on it had already blurred into a smear.

"I spent two years digging up these materials. Can you get that back?"

"The first chance to appear at a showcase under my own name. Can you give me that again?"

"These originals exist in only one copy. What do you plan to pay me back with?"

Neal's expression shifted slightly.

"Willow, I didn't know these couldn't just be reprinted."

"Of course you didn't."

He didn't know how many old newspapers I'd combed through just to pin down a single word.

Didn't know how many nights I'd stayed up sorting the missing chapters.

Didn't know I'd been waiting all this time for my name to appear on a cover.

He didn't even know what it was I actually did.

Nadia rubbed her wrist.

Neal steadied her at once.

"It's too damp in here. You go on out first."

Nadia didn't move.

She looked at the manuscript in my arms, her eyes going a little red.

"I'm sorry, sis. How about I give you back the main booth? Your manuscript may be wet, but putting it out there would at least let everyone know you did all this."

Neal frowned.

"You don't have to make yourself suffer for it."

Nadia said in a low voice, "But she really does look so upset."

Only then did Neal turn to me.

"She's willing to back down this far. Stop holding on to it."

I looked at him.

"Back down from what?"

"She's willing to give you the booth."

I couldn't help laughing.

"Setting out a pile of waterlogged pages for a showcase, and you think that's helping me?"

He didn't answer.

My mother's call came through at just that moment.

I picked up and put it on speaker.

"Willow, are you causing a scene at the fair again? Your sister has a partnership to negotiate today. Don't ruin it for her."

I said, "Mom, my manuscript is destroyed."

The line went quiet for a second.

"Destroyed, so redo it!

"You only do translation, it's not like you wrote the original!

"Your sister's deal this time is tied to the growth of her personal brand. Nothing can go wrong with it."

Neal stood there beside me and didn't say a word.

I hung up.

Outside, the panel was still going.

Someone was praising how Nadia's new series had a real sense of story to it.

Someone said it was rare that Neal, who traveled to so many countries, still remembered to gather materials for her.

Neal reached out to take the box.

"Put it down first. Don't let the reporters get a shot of it."

I dodged his hand.

"What are you afraid they'll get a shot of?"

"Today isn't the time to get emotional."

"Then when is?"

He fell silent.

I carried the sodden manuscript toward the front hall.

In the glass case, that travel journal sat in the most prominent spot.

Nadia's name was printed on the light-up sign.

My name should have been here too.

The reporters noticed me quickly.

The cameras swung around.

Neal caught up and gripped my wrist.

"Come home with me."

I looked down at his hand.

In six years, I'd waited for him so many times.

Waited for him to come back from a trip.

Waited for him to hear me out on one thing.

Waited for him, caught between me and Nadia, to ask me first, just once.

Now I didn't want to wait anymore.

I pulled my hand back, slipped off my wedding ring, and set it in his palm.

"Neal."

His expression finally changed.

I said, "Let's get a divorce."