On the night of the grand wedding, the husband announced publicly: I am fond of my cousin, and marrying you was merely by my parents' orders. She did not cry or make a fuss, turning around to write a letter of reconciliation—a single piece of contract, three rules, and after three years, letting him sign and press his fingerprint with his own hands. Guarding the main courtyard as a "living widow" for three years, she bought mulberry fields, opened an embroidery workshop, and saved up enough confidence to leave. At the longevity banquet, she was mocked for having no movement in her belly; he sat at the men's table without saying a word; she took out the letter of reconciliation in public: Lord Lu, sign it. On the day she took away her dowry, he chased to the doorway: I never thought that you would really leave. She did not even look back: From beginning to end, you never asked whether I was willing or not.