On the day of our third wedding anniversary, I received a devastating diagnosis: brain cancer.
While I lay alone in a sterile hospital bed, fighting back tears and grappling with the weight of my illness, Clyde Evans, my husband, was out with his first love. He had arranged an extravagant date, complete with a dazzling half-hour firework display that lit up the night sky.
The hashtags #EvansHeirClydeEvans and #CityFullOfFireworksForMadam shot to the top of trending lists. Everyone gushed over “Madam” and Clyde’s grand romantic gestures, painting a picture of a perfect love story.
But as the city admired his supposed devotion, I was writhing in pain, restrained by doctors who tried to keep me calm as the illness ravaged my body.
When I mustered the courage to tell Clyde about my condition, hoping for even a sliver of support, his response was cold and cutting. "Are you done causing a scene? If you’re going to die, just die already."
——
"Miss Maeve Watson, your condition is critical," the doctor had warned. "Please notify your family immediately and prepare for hospitalization."
Desperate, I sent Clyde a message, pleading with him to come to the hospital. His reply came immediately and without emotion. [Die sooner if you're going to. Stop bothering me.]
Only last night, I had been brimming with joy, carefully preparing all of Clyde’s favorite dishes, eagerly waiting for him to come home.
He said he had something to handle and wouldn’t be coming back.
Not long after, my phone buzzed with a notification: news about Clyde.
His “something” turned out to be a date with his first love, complete with a grand fireworks show.
I didn’t feel anger or betrayal. Instead, I was left dazed, as though the world had shifted out of focus.
Brain cancer. Late stage. The words felt foreign, almost laughable, like a bad punchline to an unfunny joke.
Shaking off the haze clouding my thoughts, I asked the doctor, “How long can I survive with just medication?”
His voice was calm but resolute. “Medication alone won’t suffice. Inpatient chemotherapy is your best option. We strongly recommend hospitalization.”
Without hesitation, I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary.”
His expression softened with concern. “Miss, please consider discussing this with your family before making a decision.”
Family? The word felt hollow. There was no one to lean on, no one who would lose sleep over my fate.
Ignoring his advice, I stepped out into the evening.
Kansas City’s winter nights didn’t wait for anyone, descending immediately into darkness. The cold wind cut through me like cold shards, chilling me to the bone and numbing my limbs.
I didn’t head home right away. Instead, I found a bench in the small square outside the hospital and sat down, letting the cold settle into my skin as the city lights flickered around me.
Time slipped away, second by second, like sand through my fingers and I could feel my life dwindling.
Three months.
The doctor’s words echoed relentlessly in my mind, a cruel refrain that refused to fade. Was this really how my story ended at just twenty-five?
My phone vibrated, pulling me from my grim thoughts—a message.
It was from my mother-in-law. Attached was a photo.
In the picture, Clyde was seated in an elegant restaurant, a wide smile lighting up his face as he sliced into a perfectly cooked steak. Beside him sat Milana Bennett, her adoring gaze fixed on him like he was the center of her universe.
I stared at the photo, my chest tightening. Just days ago, she had sent another image of Clyde and Milana watching fireworks together.
Her intentions couldn’t have been clearer if she’d spelled them out.
From the beginning, my mother-in-law had never hidden her disdain for me. My family was ordinary, far beneath the lofty standards she held for her son.
Three years ago, when Clyde announced our engagement, she had done everything in her power to stop the wedding.
Milana, on the other hand, was her ideal choice.
The only daughter of the Bennett Family, Milana was a picture-perfect match in her eyes. The Bennett Family might not have rivaled the wealth of the Evans Family.
Still, their multiple subsidiaries and business clout made them a force to be reckoned with in Kansas City. To my mother-in-law, Milana was the epitome of perfection and I was a mistake she longed to erase.
A few years ago, Clyde and Milana’s love story was the highlight of Kansas City’s elite circles. Their romance was the kind of tale that seemed destined for a picture-perfect engagement. But just when everyone expected wedding bells to ring, the couple shocked everyone by calling it quits.
Milana left the country soon after, vanishing without a word. The reason behind their sudden breakup became the hottest mystery in town.
Only two months later, Clyde brought me into his family’s grand estate, casually announcing that we were already married. The news sent ripples through high society, each whisper louder than the last.
From the very beginning, my mother-in-law greeted me with thinly veiled hostility, her cold glares and biting remarks making her disdain clear. To her, I was nothing more than a schemer, a nobody who had dared to seduce her son and wreck his perfect love story with Milana.
She didn’t hide her disdain for me. Before the wedding, she threatened outright, “If you dare to marry into this family, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
True to her word, after I became part of the family, she seized every opportunity to make my life unbearable. Tasks that should have been assigned to the household staff were dumped on me without hesitation. Even when I was too weak to stand, confined to my bed, she showed no mercy. Scrubbing toilets, washing endless piles of clothes, cooking elaborate meals, nothing was off-limits.
