Chapter 1

The harsh, fluorescent light of the hospital room hummed overhead, a constant, sterile sound that grated on my nerves. My mother' s breathing was shallow, a faint rasp in the suffocating quiet. I sat beside her bed, my hand holding hers. Her skin felt like paper, thin and cold.

For hours, I just watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, praying each breath wouldn' t be her last.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again. A relentless vibration against my leg.

Finally, needing a distraction from the grim reality in front of me, I pulled it out. The screen was lit up with notifications, mostly from social media. I mindlessly opened Instagram.

The first post on my feed made my blood run cold.

It was from Jake, my wife's "creative director." The picture was of Sarah, my Sarah, draped over an old, rusted-out car in a junkyard. She wore a slip of a dress, so thin it was nearly transparent under the harsh camera flash. Her head was thrown back, her mouth slightly open in a way that was meant to look artistic but just looked cheap.

The caption read: "Art is about pushing boundaries. My muse, Sarah, isn't afraid to go there. Sneak peek from our 'Urban Decay' series for the photography contest. She's a natural."

My thumb hovered over the image, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. I knew about the contest. Sarah had been talking about it for weeks, about how it was a "career-defining" opportunity for Jake, a struggling photographer she' d taken under her wing.

I told myself it was just work. I tried to believe it.

Then, a direct message notification popped up at the top of my screen. It was from Jake.

I opened it.

It was another photo, not from the official shoot. This one was a close-up. Sarah, her eyes closed, her lipstick smeared at the corner of her mouth. Jake' s hand was on her bare shoulder, his thumb pressing down possessively.

Beneath the photo, a single line of text.

"Wish you were here? Don't worry, I'm taking good care of her."

Rage, hot and acidic, flooded my chest. I couldn't breathe. My hand holding my mother's tightened, and she stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips. I immediately softened my grip, shame washing over me.

I stood up, my legs shaking, and walked out into the hallway. I had to call her. I had to hear her voice.

I speed-dialed her number.

It rang once, twice. She picked up, her voice breathless and annoyed.

"Alex? What is it? We're in the middle of a crucial shot."

"Sarah," I said, my voice cracking. "It's Mom. She's… she's not doing well. The doctor said it could be any time now. You need to come. Please."

There was a pause. I could hear Jake' s voice in the background, shouting directions. "Yes, like that! Perfect! Hold it!"

"I can't just leave, Alex," Sarah said, her tone sharp with impatience. "This is Jake's big break. Everything is riding on this. I can't let him down."

"Your mother-in-law is dying," I whispered, disbelief choking me. "My mother is dying."

"And what do you want me to do about it?" she snapped. "Hold her hand? It's not like she ever liked me anyway. I'll be there when it's over. Just... handle it. I have to go."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, the silence on the other end louder than her cruel words. I leaned against the cold wall of the hospital corridor, my body trembling. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis.

A nurse walked by, giving me a sympathetic look. "Sir, the doctor needs to speak with you."

I followed her back into the room. The doctor was standing by my mother's bed, his face grim. The gentle, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was gone. In its place was a flat, unending tone.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Evans," the doctor said softly. "She's gone."

The world went silent. The humming light, the doctor's voice, the distant hospital sounds-it all faded into nothing. All I could see was my mother's peaceful, still face.

My phone buzzed one last time.

I looked down at the screen. A notification from Instagram.

"Sarah.Evans and Jake.Creates are now live."

My thumb, moving on its own, clicked the notification. The screen filled with their faces. They were in a car, music blasting. Sarah was holding a bottle of champagne, laughing as she sprayed it all over Jake.

"We did it!" she screamed over the music. "To us! To the win!"

Jake leaned over and kissed her, a long, deep kiss, right there for the whole world to see.

I watched, a hollowed-out shell of a man, as my wife celebrated with her lover while my mother's body grew cold in the room behind me.

I spent the next few days in a fog. I made the calls. I filled out the paperwork. I picked out a casket. I wrote the eulogy. I did it all alone.

Sarah never called. She sent one text: "So sorry for your loss. Let me know when the funeral is."

After the service, after all the relatives had given their condolences and left, I went back to the house we shared. It was empty, a monument to our dead marriage.

On the dining room table, I laid out a single document. A petition for dissolution of marriage.

I packed a bag with a few clothes and my mother' s photo album. Then I walked out the door, leaving the key on the table next to the divorce papers.

I didn't look back.