Later that evening, I overheard her talking on the phone with her friend Laura. I hadn’t meant to listen, but the walls in our house were thin.
“Actually, Laura, this might be for the best,” she said quietly, yet clearly. “Being a widow sounds better than being divorced. Plus, I get to keep everything without dealing with lawyers.”
Then she laughed.
“Yes, I know,” she continued. “I’ll act like the sad widow at the funeral. I’ve already picked out the perfect black dress.”
I sat on the stairs, my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Dad’s sister, Aunt Helen, was the only one who seemed to see the truth. While everyone else offered sympathy to my supposedly heartbroken mother, Aunt Helen just stood at the funeral, shaking her head. She had always known how cruelly Mom treated Dad.
Mom moved on quickly. Just four months later, she began inviting a man over for dinner. His name was Peter Fernandez, and he had two kids from a previous marriage: Adam, twelve, and Joyce, eleven. Mom would cook elaborate dinners for them—something she had never done for Dad.
One evening, Mom turned to me, her voice saccharine.
“Betty, sweetheart, Peter and I have something to tell you.”
I already knew what she was going to say. The way they sat together on the couch, holding hands, Mom grinning like a teenager—it was obvious.
“We’re getting married,” Mom announced cheerfully. “Isn’t it wonderful? You’ll have a new father and siblings.”
I forced a smile, but my stomach churned.
“That’s great, Mom. Congratulations.”
Peter smiled at me too, but it felt hollow.
“Adam and Joyce are so happy to have a new sister,” he said.
I had already seen the way his kids looked at me during visits, as if I were dirt stuck to the bottom of their expensive shoes.
That night, I called Aunt Helen and cried for hours. She listened without interruption, then said something I would never forget.
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