My Stand Against Vivian
The horror of Lucy’s death, a mother’s unbearable grief, James’s guilt dragging him under—this crushing weight threatened to overwhelm me. For a moment, swayed by her anguish, I faltered. Then I saw it. The familiar, pristine white scarf at her wrist. Identical to the cemetery one. James’s secret "comfort." I straightened my spine, met her accusing glare.
"Mrs. Greene," my voice was strangely calm, almost cold, "I grieve deeply for Lucy’s loss. No one should endure your pain." She seemed startled. "But," I continued, crisp and deliberate, "Lucy’s tragedy was an accident. Not James’s fault. Not mine. Blaming him, binding him to you as penance, trapped in unhealed wounds… is that fair to James?" I saw the flicker deep in her eyes—vulnerability, panic.
Drawing the Line
"James is my husband . Amy’s father . He is not Lucy’s relic. Not your weapon against despair." My tone offered no quarter. "Five years, you leaned on his guilt. But did you think he needs to live? Has a life?" I stepped closer, invading her expensive perfume laced with despair.
"You need help, Mrs. Greene. But not like this. James isn’t your doctor." The air solidified. Vivian paled, her elegant mask cracking, revealing naked shock and shame. She opened her mouth. Nothing. "End it," my quiet voice held steel. "For Lucy. For James. For you. Let go. Or you’ll lose more than Lucy." I turned my back, walked to the door, and held it open. Cold. Clear. Final.
NEXT >>
The horror of Lucy’s death, a mother’s unbearable grief, James’s guilt dragging him under—this crushing weight threatened to overwhelm me. For a moment, swayed by her anguish, I faltered. Then I saw it. The familiar, pristine white scarf at her wrist. Identical to the cemetery one. James’s secret "comfort." I straightened my spine, met her accusing glare.
"Mrs. Greene," my voice was strangely calm, almost cold, "I grieve deeply for Lucy’s loss. No one should endure your pain." She seemed startled. "But," I continued, crisp and deliberate, "Lucy’s tragedy was an accident. Not James’s fault. Not mine. Blaming him, binding him to you as penance, trapped in unhealed wounds… is that fair to James?" I saw the flicker deep in her eyes—vulnerability, panic.
Drawing the Line
"James is my husband . Amy’s father . He is not Lucy’s relic. Not your weapon against despair." My tone offered no quarter. "Five years, you leaned on his guilt. But did you think he needs to live? Has a life?" I stepped closer, invading her expensive perfume laced with despair.
"You need help, Mrs. Greene. But not like this. James isn’t your doctor." The air solidified. Vivian paled, her elegant mask cracking, revealing naked shock and shame. She opened her mouth. Nothing. "End it," my quiet voice held steel. "For Lucy. For James. For you. Let go. Or you’ll lose more than Lucy." I turned my back, walked to the door, and held it open. Cold. Clear. Final.
NEXT >>
Comments