Do you mind if your partner has lived with someone else before?

There's an old sweater, pre-knitted by someone else, worn by many people before.
You can wear it directly; it'll keep you warm and cozy.
There's also a new sweater, which I'll knit myself, stitch by stitch. The width of the cuffs, the length of the neckline, the color, the style, the stitching—every detail requires time and effort.
This sweater is so well-made; it's not only warm but also incredibly comfortable against the skin.
Making such a sweater can take anywhere from one or two years to three to five years. The key point is that even if it's your masterpiece, it doesn't belong to you forever. Today it's yours, tomorrow it might belong to someone else. With
winter approaching, you have two options: an old sweater, a pile of loose yarn and needles. Which
would you choose? I once chose the former without hesitation: the old sweater, a man who had a family. When I met him , he had been divorced for less than six months. He told me this news himself, by the bedside. It was my third winter in Shanghai, and I was moving in the rain on a weekend. The move was a bit bumpy; I didn't have many large items, but I had a lot of small, miscellaneous things. It wasn't until the new place was settled that I realized I had lost my cotton slippers somewhere. Being single, I was used to lacking things, but life had to go on. I didn't have cotton slippers, but I still had sandals, which I wore with cotton socks. The first time I met him was in the elevator when I went upstairs to throw out the trash. I was wearing a thick watermelon-colored cotton coat and pants, thick pink cotton socks, and a pair of beige sandals that looked very plasticky and made a clattering sound when I stepped on them . The elevator came up from the basement. Inside stood a tall man, unshaven, with a serious expression, dressed in slick, black leather. In my hometown, he'd most likely be mistaken for a butcher. Luckily, I'm experienced; this style of leather jacket is winter riding gear. Anyone dressed like that in winter, if not a fellow motorcycle enthusiast, must be a serious motorcyclist. As the elevator slowly ascended, I worried he might suddenly turn to me and say, "Hey beautiful, want some pork?" I'd definitely give him a curt no, "Sorry, my gas isn't on yet, I can't cook." Clearly , he wasn't a butcher; he was a rider. The elevator dinged and opened the door. Just as I stepped out, he spoke up, "Where did you buy your socks? Are they warm?" "You bastard , you didn't even address me properly! Don't you think I look good in this?" As they spoke, they both exited the elevator. The doors closed quietly, and the elevator continued its ascent with a buzz. I glanced down at my socks, my toes unconsciously twitching. I suddenly felt a heat on my face. I looked up and replied, "Bought from Uniqlo, cheap stuff. They shed a bit after a while, not very warm." He grunted in agreement, walked straight ahead, and stopped next to me. He jingled as he pulled a bunch of keys from his bag, unlocked the door, and went inside. The door slammed shut behind him . That damn pig butcher, so inexplicable. When I got home, I realized I'd been so focused on the pig in the elevator that I hadn't even pressed the button. Sure enough, women who've been single for too long easily lose their rationality when they're around men; it's an illness, it needs treatment. Oh well, if I can't have a man, I'll just have instant noodles. I tore open the noodles, squeezed out the seasoning, and boiled the water. Before the water even boiled, there was a knock at the door. The slippers clicked loudly on the floor. The door opened, and before I could even see who it was, a pair of white fur slippers were practically touching my face. " Here, these are for you, never worn." This was our second meeting. I reached out to take his slippers, but he had already turned and left, slamming the door shut behind him. Wearing warm slippers and eating steaming instant noodles, I almost burst out laughing. Such unexpected kindness—it must be up to no good. How can I describe this feeling? Some believe in love at first sight, some believe in the matchmaker, and some believe Cupid missed his mark. However, as a woman accustomed to being single, I've seen too many men's tricks, and I don't believe in any of those. I prefer to believe in the word "fate." In life, everyone encounters good and bad things; there's no need to be surprised, it's all predetermined. I know this explanation has a lot of mystical elements. But when faced with a man who appears out of nowhere, this explanation makes the person involved appear more dignified. What else could I say? Me , a nearly 30-year-old spinster, smitten by a pair of slippers? And the guy on the other end is a butcher? That 's so undignified, so inappropriate. Anyway, to repay the kindness of the winter slippers, the next day after work, I filled the gas cylinder at home, made dumplings, and brought him a bowl—chive and egg filling.

He said his favorite food is dumplings with chives and eggs, and as a token of his gratitude, he would like to cook and demonstrate his skills. I must come and support him tomorrow night. The
next day, I went as promised. Four cold dishes and four hot dishes, typical Northern style cooking, rich and flavorful. I ate until I was stuffed before going home. The third day,
he went as promised, and the fourth, fifth, sixth, and many more days followed. A
month later, I no longer needed to go to his restaurants, and he no longer needed to go to mine. [After the last visit, by his bedside, he finally spoke of that woman, the former owner of those slippers. They had divorced six months ago.] He emphasized that the slippers were new, and no one had ever worn them. As the saying goes, "He who takes a man's money is bound to him, and he who eats his food is obligated to him." This saying should only apply to women. Think about it, neither "bound" nor "obligated" should belong to men. I let out a long burp and told him, "I don't care if you've been divorced or if anyone has worn your slippers. I just love your cooking. Promise me you'll only cook for me from now on, and I'll only make dumplings for you." He nodded and turned off the light. "He who takes a man's money is bound to him, and he who eats his food is obligated to him." That night, I didn't go home. For a woman approaching thirty, with winter approaching, some decisions aren't difficult to make. Big principles are for others to hear. I'm actually very afraid of the cold, only I know that. The longer it's cold, the more afraid I become. Those who say they're not afraid of the cold are just pretending. I also bought a leather jacket and riding gear. Wearing it, I looked shiny and slick, like a female version of a pig butcher. Sitting on the motorcycle, leaning against the older man's back, everything rushed past me, giving me a dizzying feeling of time travel. Even in the leather jacket, I still felt a bit cold, but my heart was warm. What's the difference between a young man and an older man? I've summarized it like this: young men are mostly impulsive, frivolous, and lack charm. They have a fatal flaw: immaturity. Guess what happens when you slap someone on the butt? " Why did you hit me?" This is what most young men would ask. In comparison, older men are much more tactful in this regard. I tried it once; while riding, I aimed at his rear end and slapped him hard—the sound was audible even through my helmet. He slowly slowed down, pulled over, put his feet on the ground, took off his helmet, and turned around, his eyes full of doting affection, with a hint of enthusiasm and provocation. That's the difference between maturity and immaturity; everything is understood without words. If you have something to say, talk about it at home. The kitchen, the balcony, the living room—you can talk anywhere. So what if my partner has lived with someone else before? So what if he's divorced? I'm actually happy to sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor. A sharpshooter is made by bullets, but a decent man is made by women. This demeanor can be described as composure, or as seasoned experience. It feels like a spring breeze, or a comfortable 40-degree bath. My parents have been urging me to get married for years; every Spring Festival is my harsh winter. Two months have passed in the blink of an eye, and everything is going so smoothly and beautifully. Except for that photo, a pretty one-inch blue background woman's ID photo, hidden in his wallet. The dumplings on the table are freshly cooked, pork and scallion filling, steaming hot. I said with a smile, "Did you forget something in your wallet? " He thought for a moment, picked up his chopsticks, smiled, and said, "Sorry, there won't be a next time, don't worry." No one is perfect. I naturally trusted him; the Spring Festival was approaching. I had made up my mind to take him home. The photos could be thrown away; I wasn't petty. But the photos weren't thrown away. They remained in that compartment, untouched, until I discovered them again. I allowed you to have been married and divorced, allowed your motorcycle to have carried other women, even allowed other women to have slept with you—I could accept all of that. What I couldn't accept was that you still had other women in your heart. Where was I supposed to fit in? On the day we broke up, in the hallway, I smiled and asked him, "Is that your ex-wife in the photo?" He hesitated for a long time, but thankfully he still had a smile on his face. He shook his head and said, "No." I had originally planned to take him home for the New Year, but suddenly I changed my mind. I slammed the door shut, but this time it was me who closed it. It was my door that closed, and he was the one left outside. It proved the old saying, "New clothes are better than old ones, but old friends are better than new ones. " I packed my things and moved. The landlord, a local uncle, was surprised when he came to hand over the keys. "Young lady, why are you leaving after only a short time?" he asked. I lied and said I had changed jobs and it was inconvenient to stay here.

The uncle breathed a sigh of relief. "Young lady, you're a good person. I can tell you've kept the house clean." I smiled and said
, "Thank you for the compliment, it's my pleasure.
" The uncle stopped smiling, but then said, "This deposit is non-refundable."
I said, "It's okay, thank you, goodbye, oh no, bye-bye."
The
moving process was still bumpy; there weren't many large items, but there were many small, miscellaneous things.
When I arrived at the new house, it took me a whole weekend to unpack and settle in. I was still wearing my beige sandals, which felt very plasticky and made a clattering sound when I stepped on them. As for those cotton slippers, I threw them at his head

. Winter is coming, new clothes or old clothes, how to choose?
Let me tell you,
clothes are better when they are new, but people are better when they are old.

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