On the day of our wedding, my wife stood on the roof of the building, clad in a pure white gown.
She wept as she asked me, “If I die, will the people who hurt me feel any remorse?”
“They won’t feel a thing,” I replied. “But I will kill them. I’ll make every single one of them follow you to the grave. If you still love me, if you can’t bear to see me become a murderer, then don’t jump. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”
She wiped away her tears and forced a faint smile. “I’m sorry, but I can’t hold on anymore. Every single day I’m alive, I just want to die.”
I looked at her, a wave of desolate sorrow washing over me.
I loved her.
But if she jumped, I would understand.