I gave Mom an expensive gift for her birthday, but she threw it away, called me a failure, so I took back the gift and told her what was inside the box—and now she won’t stop calling. “I want to be part of your life again.”
I was twelve when my world turned upside down. That morning started like any other.
Dad kissed me goodbye before heading to work at the construction company where he was a site manager. Mom barely looked up from her phone as he left. I remember thinking how strange it was, because they used to be so different with each other.
My name is Melanie Carter, and that was the last time I saw my father alive. He collapsed at work that afternoon. A massive heart attack, they said.
I was in class when the principal called me to her office. Mom was already there, her mascara perfectly intact despite the news she had just received. “Your father’s gone, Melanie,” she said, her voice steady—too steady.
I broke down crying, but Mom just sat there, patting my back mechanically. That evening, I overheard her on the phone with her friend Linda. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but Mom’s voice carried through the thin walls of our suburban home.
“Actually, Linda, this might be for the best,” she said, her voice low but clear. “Being a widow is much more respectable than being divorced. Plus, I get to keep everything without the hassle of lawyers.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed. “I know, I know. I’ll play the grieving widow at the funeral.
I’ve already picked out the perfect black dress.”
I sat on the stairs, my hand pressed against my mouth to keep from screaming. Dad’s sister, Aunt Sarah, was the only one who seemed to see through Mom’s act. At the funeral, while everyone else was offering condolences to my devastated mother, Aunt Sarah just stood there, shaking her head sadly.
She knew. She’d always known. How Mom treated Dad.
It didn’t take Mom long to heal from her loss. Within three months, she started having a man over for dinner. His name was Richard Thompson, and he had two kids from his previous marriage—Brandon, who was eleven, and Emma, who was ten.
Mom would cook elaborate meals when they visited, something she’d never done for Dad. “Melanie, honey,” Mom said one evening, her voice syrupy-sweet, “Richard and I have something to tell you.”
I knew what was coming. The way they sat together on the couch holding hands, Mom beaming like a teenager.
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