The Eve of A Broken Family

Adelaide Trevelyan, my mother-in-law, was in the final stages of cancer, experiencing a brief period of lucidity. She wanted to take a family portrait with me and her daughter, Yedda Hewlett.

I had arranged for a photographer and picked out our outfits—everything was set. But as soon as Yedda received a phone call, she hurriedly left.

We waited until dusk, with Adelaide holding on by sheer will.

Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked me, "Is she back? Has Yedda come back?"

As I made the thirty-third call to Yedda, Adelaide could hold on no longer and quietly passed away.

At that very moment, Yedda's male best friend posted a photo of the two of them on Instagram with a caption: [It's great to have someone take care of you when you're drunk.]

After the funeral, I was overwhelmed with despair and dialed Yedda's number once more.

Before I could say anything, she answered, irritated. "How many times are you going to nag? I'm just changing clothes. I'll be there soon. Just wait there with my mom."

1

The thought of Adelaide passing without fulfilling her last wish felt like a stab to my heart.

I had intended to tell Yedda that her beloved mother was gone, but hearing her tone, I realized it no longer mattered.

"Yedda, forget the photo. Let's get a divorce."

Saying those words brought a sense of relief.

I never imagined I would be the one to walk away.

But the feeling of utter desolation made it impossible to forgive her as I once had.

After handling Adelaide's affairs, I wiped away my tears and headed to the photography studio.

The young woman at the front desk informed me that the photographer would be late and suggested I wait.

She was carrying a pizza to the meeting room and kindly offered. "Would you like to join me?"

I shook my head.

I didn't want to eat pizza ever again.

I was an orphan, and no one had ever made pizza just for me.

That changed when I visited Yedda's family. Adelaide had pushed a large pizza toward me, urging me to eat more.

She knew I had a rough upbringing and treated me like a son.

She'd said, "If you ever want more, just ask—I'll make them for you anytime."

Adelaide wasn't just my mother-in-law; she was like a real mother to me.

Now that she was gone, the family felt broken beyond repair.

The thought brought tears to my eyes.

I rubbed my eyes and suddenly heard laughter coming from the door.

As I wiped my eyes, I heard laughter from the entrance.

Yedda and Raymond Lattimore strolled in, teasing and playful, as if they were newlyweds.

Yedda's expression darkened when she saw me sitting on the sofa.

"Boyce, you didn't answer your phone. So, you came here first.

"Are you really going to suggest a divorce over something so trivial?"

I looked up at her meticulously made-up face, feeling nothing.

"So, the 'urgent matter' was abandoning your mother to be with him?"

"I've told you a million times—Raymond is my best friend. Don't you get that? If you're just being petty, you can just admit it. But don't use my mom as an excuse."

Raymond was Yedda's so-called best friend.

Their relationship was so close that they drank from the same bottle, wore matching outfits, and were overly familiar.

She used to justify it, saying, "I don't even think of him as a guy. And if we wanted to be together, it would've happened by now."

I loved her and believed her.

But as my tolerance grew, so did their inappropriate behavior.

They no longer avoided being alone together, and it led to countless arguments between Yedda and me—so many that I had already considered divorce.

But with Adelaide in the hospital battling late-stage cancer, I didn't want to add to her stress.

Now that Adelaide was gone, what reason did I have to stay?

"Think what you want," I replied coldly. "I'll send you the divorce papers later."

Yedda was stunned, but Raymond tightened his grip on her shoulder, standing tall as if he had won.

"Mate, I blacked out last night, and Yedda only helped me home because she was worried.

"You keep saying you love her, but you want a divorce over something this small? That's not very manly."

I let out a dry laugh and retorted, "If you were a real man, you wouldn't have gotten so drunk that you needed a married woman to take care of you.

"If you were a real man, you would've had the sense to call a cab instead of depending on her.

"I don't think you're much of a man, Raymond. In fact, what you're doing doesn't even qualify as human."

Smack.

Yedda slapped me across the face hard.