Chapter 3

3

Lorraine passed away on a Wednesday.

After I fed her breakfast, she said she was sleepy. I helped her lie down. She asked me, “Elena, is it a nice day outside?”

I pulled back the curtains. The sun flooded the room. I could hear birds chirping outside.

“It’s beautiful. The sun is out.”

She gave a faint, tiny smile and closed her eyes.

I sat in the chair by the bed and started looking at recipes on my phone. I wanted to make her some fish stew for lunch.

About twenty minutes passed. I looked up and noticed her breathing seemed off. It was shallow, like a thin veil of silk.

I put my phone down and walked over.

“Mom?”

No response.

“Mom!”

I pulled back the blanket. Her face was peaceful, as if she were just sleeping. But her chest wasn't moving anymore.

I put my hand under her nose. There was nothing.

I took a step back, my hands starting to shake.

Maddox.

I grabbed my phone and dialed his number.

Ring... ring... ring... ring... ring.

“The person you are calling is busy―”

He declined it.

I called again.

Ring... ring...

Declined.

The third time, he finally picked up.

“I’m in a meeting. What is it?” His voice was ice-cold. It was the tone of someone irritated by a trivial interruption.

“Mom... she’s gone.”

Silence. It lasted maybe four seconds.

“I’ll be home after work.”

Click. He hung up.

I stood there by Lorraine’s bed, clutching my phone. The sun was still shining on her face. Her hand was still warm.

I sank to the floor and buried my face in the bedsheets.

He didn't get home until 7:30 PM. The funeral home had already taken Lorraine away two hours prior. I was the one who called them. I was the one who made the arrangements. I was the one who signed the papers alone.

The house felt empty. The medical bed she had lived in for three years had fresh sheets on it. The blankets were folded neatly. The air still smelled like antiseptic and ointment.

Maddox changed into his slippers and poured a glass of water. He sat on the sofa.

“You handle the funeral. Things are tight at the office right now.”

“Things are tight.” Those three words carried more weight to him than “Mom is dead.”

I looked at him, my lips trembling, but I said nothing.

For the next three months, I did everything. I contacted the mortuary, picked the urn, chose the cemetery plot, and organized the wake. Maddox showed up twice. Once to stand in his suit at the service, and once to the social security office to file the death certificate.

The night after the final paperwork was done, he was in the shower. His phone was sitting on the nightstand.

I had never looked through his things before.

But in those three months, he hadn't spoken more than fifty words to me. The way he looked at me had changed. He would smile at his phone during dinner. He’d say he was working late, but his shirts smelled like expensive perfume.

I picked up his phone.

He hadn't changed his passcode. It was still our anniversary.

I opened his messages.

There was a pinned chat. The contact name was “Amber.” Her profile picture was a girl winking at the camera with honey-blonde hair.

The most recent message: “Last night was so much fun. Where are we going next time?”

I scrolled up.

“Is your wife home during the day?”

“Yeah. She’s busy playing nurse for my mom. She doesn't have time to bother me.”

“When is your mom finally going to kick the bucket?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

I scrolled further back. To last year.

“She told me her back hurts again today. I told her to just use some cheap ointment.”

“Hahaha, you’re so mean!”

“It saves money. If she goes to a doctor, who’s going to clean up my mom’s mess?”

I kept scrolling. Three years. Three years of messages.

On the day Lorraine was rushed to the ICU, he was in a hotel room with Amber.

On the nights Lorraine was incontinent and I was up three times to change her, he was at a bar with Amber.

On the night his mother died, he came home and fell asleep instantly―because he’d spent the whole day at Amber’s house. There was even a photo of his shoes next to her pink slippers.

I put the phone back exactly where it was. I even made sure the charging cable was at the same angle.

I climbed into bed. He came out of the bathroom, turned off the light, and was snoring within minutes.

I didn't sleep a wink. I lay there with my hands tucked under my pillow, my nails digging into my palms.

The next morning at six, I got up. I made oatmeal and fried two eggs.

He sat at the table, eating his breakfast. His screen lit up―Amber was texting him good morning.

I said, “I want a divorce.”

He finished chewing his egg and took a sip of milk. He set the glass down.

“Fine.”

His tone was as casual as confirming a meeting time.

“How do we split the house?”

He wiped his mouth and looked at me. Then, he smiled.

I will never forget that smile as long as I live. it wasn't smugness or mockery. It was the look of someone who had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Split?” He crumpled his napkin and tossed it onto his plate.

“Elena, this house was in my mother’s name before we married. She’s dead now. I am the sole legal heir. This property is my personal inheritance.”

He leaned back and crossed his arms, looking like a winner at a negotiation table.

“I appreciate the three years of hard work you put in. I really do. But that has nothing to do with property rights. Any lawyer will tell you―you get zero.”

“You made me quit my job,” I whispered, staring at him. “You said it would be one year. It’s been three. I haven't earned a cent. I spent over forty thousand of my own savings on this house―”

“I’ll give you fifty thousand,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. As a settlement.”

He stood up and grabbed his briefcase. He walked to the door and bent over to tie his shoes, his back to me.

“Tell you what―I’ll make it eighty thousand. Final offer.” He straightened up and turned around. “But you need to move out fast. I have plans for next month.”

The door slammed shut.

I sat alone at the table. The eggs had gone cold. The yolks had hardened into a solid yellow mass. A thin skin had formed over the oatmeal.

I picked up the plate, walked to the sink, and turned on the faucet.

The water blasted the egg yolk, breaking it into tiny, jagged pieces. They swirled down the drain.

Just like the last three years of my life.