Finding My Voice（2） The Path We Walked【1】
My married life began in a small, rural town in Hokkaido. My family home was in a regional city in Hokkaido with an airport, and our new apartment was about a two-hour drive from there. We settled into an old housing complex provided by the company.
The complex was surprisingly spacious—almost too large for just two people. Perhaps because it was an older building, or because land was relatively inexpensive, each room was wide with plenty of storage space. The bathtub was small, and the tiled bathroom was freezing, but the wooden-floored living room featured a large FF-type oil heater, which kept us warm and cozy even in the depths of winter. Beyond the window with its large balcony stretched wide pastures and fields.
Our newlywed life was happy. Having left my job, I spent my days baking homemade bread, sewing cushion covers, and eagerly trying to make our old, far-from-stylish apartment comfortable and uniquely our own. Back then, my husband appreciated the meals I cooked and offered favorable comments about how I decorated the rooms. I believe both of us held genuine hopes for our new life together.
Yet, on the weekends, my husband always wanted to visit my family home. He seemed to be struggling with interpersonal relationships at work, and he didn't want to spend his weekends in our home near his workplace. I didn't have any strong attachment to where we spent our weekends; however, I sensed that his desire to go to my family home wasn't because he genuinely liked my mother, but simply because he wanted to escape the place close to his office.
Almost every weekend, my husband drove me on the long journey to visit my family home. My mother, who lived alone after losing her husband, seemed to welcome our visits. Looking back, though we visited my mother's house so frequently, we never once brought along a proper souvenir or gift. It was my family home, but it was his wife's family home. Did he feel any sense of gratitude toward my mother at all? I only realized this as I was writing these words.
When I recall this year, there is one vivid image that remains deeply etched in my memory. I was home alone. It was a quiet weekday morning, the air crisp with the stillness of autumn, and I was cooking on top of the FF oil heater. It was common to place pots and kettles on the heater, serving both to add humidity to the room and to save on gas bills. If I recall correctly, I was making beef stew. I was feeling cheerful, imagining the look of delight on my husband's face.
While cooking, I absentmindedly turned on the television. Foreign scenery appeared on the screen—a bustling cityscape lined with towering buildings. Modern streets and announcements flowing in English. And then, into one of those tall buildings, a large airplane flew straight in, without a moment of hesitation. Thick, dark smoke rising into the clear blue sky... and the screams of people.
As I watched it, I felt a bottomless sense of dread. The scene looked like something out of a movie, yet it was actually happening in reality. Unexpected things happen in life, I thought to myself. What must the people on that plane have been thinking in that exact moment? Imagining it filled me with an unbearable sorrow. And then I imagined the feelings of the bereaved families. Life can change in an instant, I realized. But I was not yet aware that my own life was about to be drastically altered by my husband.
Next Story:Finding My Voice（3） The Path We Walked【2】｜Cristal
First Story: Finding My Voice（１） Introduction｜Cristal
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