Breaking Point
I don’t recall driving home. The engine’s dying echo sounded hollow in the garage. Inside, darkness and silence. Leaning against the cold car door, strength drained from me. The scene replayed obsessively: their backs side-by-side, the blinding white flowers, Lucy’s eternal smile on the stone, Vivian’s scarf fluttering in the breeze… a grotesque parody. His former mother-in-law. Nausea surged. I bolted to the bathroom, dry heaving over the toilet, only bitter bile burning my throat.
Tears finally erupted—not from sadness, but a visceral reaction to immense betrayal and suffocating absurdity. Four years of marriage, my warm sanctuary, shattered by this brutal truth. Who was James? The man who made my coffee, rubbed my shoulders, adored our daughter? How many masks did he wear?
The Late-Night Study
In bed, eyes wide open, I stared at blurred shapes on the ceiling. Almost 1 AM. James’s bedroom door handle turned softly—still careful not to wake me. Then, near-silent footsteps crossed the living room towards the end of the hall. The study door opened gently, closed. A sliver of light escaped beneath it. Like a soulless husk, barefoot on cold tiles, I crept over. Pressed my ear to the heavy wood. Silence within.
Then, after an eternity, a choked, fragmented sob. A man’s voice. James. Then, he spoke. Voice ragged, thick with tears, each word torn from his throat: "Mom… are you there?" "I went… to Lucy’s…" "I burned… the birthday gift…" "That new scarf… by the designer she liked… white… like yours today…" My nails dug into the doorframe wood, sharp pain flaring. He called her "Mom." At Lucy’s grave, calling Vivian. He remembered Lucy’s taste, buying a scarf echoing Vivian’s… that careful tending. The sliver of light beneath the door was a cold blade severing my last delusion.
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I don’t recall driving home. The engine’s dying echo sounded hollow in the garage. Inside, darkness and silence. Leaning against the cold car door, strength drained from me. The scene replayed obsessively: their backs side-by-side, the blinding white flowers, Lucy’s eternal smile on the stone, Vivian’s scarf fluttering in the breeze… a grotesque parody. His former mother-in-law. Nausea surged. I bolted to the bathroom, dry heaving over the toilet, only bitter bile burning my throat.
Tears finally erupted—not from sadness, but a visceral reaction to immense betrayal and suffocating absurdity. Four years of marriage, my warm sanctuary, shattered by this brutal truth. Who was James? The man who made my coffee, rubbed my shoulders, adored our daughter? How many masks did he wear?
The Late-Night Study
In bed, eyes wide open, I stared at blurred shapes on the ceiling. Almost 1 AM. James’s bedroom door handle turned softly—still careful not to wake me. Then, near-silent footsteps crossed the living room towards the end of the hall. The study door opened gently, closed. A sliver of light escaped beneath it. Like a soulless husk, barefoot on cold tiles, I crept over. Pressed my ear to the heavy wood. Silence within.
Then, after an eternity, a choked, fragmented sob. A man’s voice. James. Then, he spoke. Voice ragged, thick with tears, each word torn from his throat: "Mom… are you there?" "I went… to Lucy’s…" "I burned… the birthday gift…" "That new scarf… by the designer she liked… white… like yours today…" My nails dug into the doorframe wood, sharp pain flaring. He called her "Mom." At Lucy’s grave, calling Vivian. He remembered Lucy’s taste, buying a scarf echoing Vivian’s… that careful tending. The sliver of light beneath the door was a cold blade severing my last delusion.
NEXT >>
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