My mother died without ever knowing I could never have children again.
I stared at her memorial portrait, my eyes burning red, and before I could stop myself my hand flew across Tristram's face：
“You don't get to say her name.”
Tristram cupped his cheek and let out a quiet laugh, then lifted his head to look at me with undisguised contempt：
“Claudia, you and your mother have been eating my food, living under my roof for years. I'm the one who covered every last cent of her hospital bills.”
“Your mother gave me a few hot meals. What I gave back was enough to feed you both for a lifetime.”
I stared at him, my face flushed with disbelief, but I couldn't form a single word.
Everything my mother had done for him, all those years of kindness, and he'd just waved it away as a few hot meals.
When I said nothing, he reached into his bag, pulled out the divorce papers, and flung them at me：
“Besides, I already told you, it's just a formality. You can't have kids, so I found someone to do it for you. Shouldn't you be saying thank you?”
“Sign when you're ready. Lois has a prenatal appointment and we're running late. I'm leaving.”
He took Lois's hand and walked out without a backward glance.
After he left, I collapsed to the floor and wept.
Once I'd taken care of my mother's arrangements, I held her memorial portrait against my chest and took a cab back to the villa.
The moment I stepped out of the car, it started to rain.
I stood at the entrance, watching the raindrops fall through the porch light, and for one breath it was fifteen years ago.
It had been raining that day too. My mother and I were walking home arm in arm when we spotted a small boy crouched beside a dumpster.
He wore a filthy T-shirt and was hunched over, digging through the trash.
He'd finally fished out a piece of moldy bread and was about to shove it into his mouth when he slipped and fell. The bread tumbled from his hand, carried by the rainwater straight into the storm drain.
He sat there on the ground while the rain beat against his face, biting his lip so hard it looked like it might bleed, refusing to let himself cry out loud.
My mother couldn't bear the sight of him. She took his hand and led him home.
He was a foster child. His adoptive mother was a gambler, his adoptive father a drunk. They beat him whenever they felt like it and often didn't bother to feed him at all.
When my mother learned what his life was like, she told him to come eat at our house whenever he was hungry.
From that day on, Tristram Stephens walked into my world.
We were the same age, so we walked to school together, walked home together.
Whenever I had something good to eat, I always split it with him.
Bit by bit, we went from shy glances to something more, and by the time we graduated college, he got down on one knee and proposed.
At our wedding, he knelt before my mother：
“Mom, thank you. You and Claudia gave me warmth when I had nothing and no one. I swear I'll take care of you both for the rest of my life. I won't let either of you suffer.”
“If I ever break this vow, may God strike me down.”
A coy whine from inside the house pulled me back to the present：
“Hey, stop it! The doctor said we have to wait until three months before we can……you know.”
“Be good, babe. Just hold on a little longer?”
Tristram's low voice followed：
“You little tease. How am I supposed to keep my hands off you?”
“One more week and it'll be three months. Our wedding night. You just wait and see what I do to you.”
My arms tightened around my mother's portrait.
I drew a long breath and stepped inside.
On the couch, Lois was straddling Tristram's lap with the front of her nightgown slipping open. It was my nightgown.
Neither of them showed a shred of shame when I walked in.
Lois shot me a look, deliberate and taunting, then tugged the neckline down another inch.
Tristram gave her a rough squeeze, then turned to me with that same look of disdain：
“Made up your mind already?”
