The Note That Started It All — And the One That Almost Ended It

I met him when I was 17.

Back then, I was the kind of girl who read poetry and dreamed of falling in love with someone who would write me letters. Someone who understood words and feelings and all the romantic things I'd read about in books.

He was not that person.

He was the boy who failed English but aced math. The one who looked for answers during exams instead of writing them himself. We had nothing in common. At least, that's what I thought.

One day during an English test, I finished early. I was bored, looking around the room, and I noticed him doing the same thing — except he was looking for someone to copy from.

I don't know why I did it. Maybe I was just bored. I wrote the answers on a small piece of paper and passed it to him.

He looked surprised. Then he smiled.

That was the beginning.

After that day, we started passing notes. He was funny. Really funny. He made me laugh in ways the poetry boys never could.

One day, I asked him casually: "Is there a girl you like?"

He passed me back a note. Next to it, he had drawn a small mirror. Under the mirror, he wrote: "Look in the mirror."

It was cheesy. It was perfect.

But I didn't take it seriously. I was still waiting for my poetry boy.

Then one day, the poetry boy rejected me.

The same day, another boy tried to kiss me without asking. I ran away crying.

And for some reason, when I was at my lowest, the only face I could see in my mind was his.

I wrote him a note: "Do you want me?"

He wrote back immediately: "Yes. Forever."

And just like that, we were together.

High school love is supposed to be simple. But ours wasn't.

My father — the person I admired most in the world — had an affair with a woman only six years older than me. My parents divorced. My world fell apart.

Mike was there through all of it.

He skipped class with me. He walked with me along the river when I couldn't speak. He picked me up at 5:30 every morning and walked me home every night.

I had stopped believing in love because of my father. But he made me believe again.

After graduation, we went to different cities for college. Three hours apart.

We were poor. But we spent all our money on train tickets to see each other. Sometimes I'd visit him. Sometimes he'd visit me. One time, we just kept going back and forth — I'd see him off at the station, then jump on the next train and follow him home.

Looking back, I don't know how we loved each other that much. But we did.

When I graduated, I moved back to our hometown. He was supposed to follow a year later.

But when he graduated, there were no good jobs in our small city. So he stayed in the bigger city, and I stayed home. Just an hour apart. We could manage.

We got married that year. Our son was born the next.

Life wasn't perfect. His mother moved in to help with the baby. She was strong-willed. I was stubborn. We argued about everything — how to raise the baby, how to spend money, even how to fold clothes.

Every weekend when he came home, he had to play mediator. And almost always, he took my side. That made the hard days easier.

I thought we were okay. I thought we would make it.

Then I got the text message.

He left his phone on the table when he went to buy groceries.

A message popped up: "I still feel sick. That medicine you gave me was terrible."

My heart stopped.

I knew what that medicine was. The morning-after pill.

I texted back, pretending to be him. Within minutes, I had the whole story.

A woman at his office. They'd been talking for weeks — she was lonely, her husband was abusive, he was stressed about our fights at home. It started as friendship. Then one night, she asked him to fix a light at her apartment.

And it happened. Just once. But once was enough.

When he came home, I confronted him on the rooftop.

He didn't lie. He told me everything. How he regretted it immediately. How he made her take the pill. How he'd been sick with guilt ever since.

He got on his knees and begged.

I looked down at the city lights and thought about jumping.

The person I loved most in the world had broken me.

The next month was hell.

I couldn't eat. If I forced myself, I threw it up. I lost 20 pounds. I thought about divorce constantly. But every time I thought about leaving, I thought about our son. I knew what it felt like to grow up without a father. I didn't want that for him.

And the truth was, I still loved him. Love is cruel that way.

I tortured both of us. I made him tell me every detail. I made him text the woman's husband. I did crazy things because I needed the pain to stop.

He quit his job without telling me. He took out a loan, added our savings, and bought us a small apartment in the city where he worked. Then he got down on his knees again, holding the keys.

"Come with me," he said. "Give me one more chance."

I couldn't answer. The wound was still too fresh.

I thought about getting even. I created a fake profile online, ready to find someone just to make it even. But five seconds after sending the first message, I deleted it.

I couldn't do it. I realized that revenge wouldn't heal me. It would only break us both.

So I made a choice. Not an easy one. Not one I was sure about. But a choice.

I decided to forgive him.

That was 11 years ago.

Today, no one knows about that chapter of our lives. Our friends think we're the perfect couple — high school sweethearts, still in love after all these years.

And you know what? We are.

He comes home early to cook for me. When he has to go to work dinners, he's the only one who doesn't ask for a hostess. He laughs when his colleagues call him whipped. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

Once, a female coworker sent him a digital red envelope with 5.20 — a flirtatious amount in Chinese culture. He didn't open it. He sent her back 6.66 and wrote: "Good luck with work."

Small things. But over 11 years, small things build trust.

We have two kids now. A house. A life.

Do I regret forgiving him?

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd left. But regret is a waste of time. I made a choice. And he's spent every day since proving it was the right one.

He made a mistake. Then he spent the rest of his life making up for it.

Some people say cheating is unforgivable. Maybe they're right. But for us, divorce wasn't the answer.

He took the wrong road. Then he came back. And he's been walking home to me ever since.

I'm 34 now.

Seventeen years ago, I was a girl who passed a note to a boy during an English test. I had no idea that small piece of paper would become my whole life.

There's a scar on our story. But scars don't mean the story isn't beautiful.

They just mean it's real.