(1) On the day I got my marriage license, he told me that we would divorce after a year

Our story, in my mind, always begins on the day I get my marriage license.

I vividly remember when I was four months pregnant, and because the city was busy and it was not convenient to drive, he drove me to the Civil Affairs Bureau on a motorcycle.

It was my first time here and I felt a little inexplicably sacred and magical.

My heart is still very happy.

The visa hall can almost be described as bustling.

A marriage certificate is indeed a document and is a procedure.

But perhaps this is the most romantic certification process in the world.

We came and went, spent an hour, received two certificates, one for each, and symbolically proclaimed the oath.

The noise of the commotion had drowned out the good mood I had just had, and only a little curiosity about the future life, or anticipation, remained.

Finally walking out of the door of the examination hall, I sat behind him, one hand around him, the other on the slightly raised pregnant belly, as if this linked the three lives together.

When the car started, he turned his head, smiled lightly, and said: In a year, we will divorce the marriage.

Although I know the secret of this marriage, from the bottom of my heart, I still like him very much, and I am naturally not happy to be said by him.

But I slowed down for two seconds, and then I smiled at him with the same breeze: Are you divorced and addicted?

He laughed softly and started the car.

No one could accurately foresee later life, even if they were as sophisticated as he was.

These seemingly dramatic dog-blood plots are not fictions, but the beginning of all our later lives.