I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the fire warming my knees but not my heart. Around me were photos, letters—remnants of life with Jim, now gone.
The divorce had come fast. One moment we were arguing over groceries, the next, I was signing papers with shaking hands.
Mama sat nearby, stiff, sipping tea like she was waiting for a storm to pass. “You’re doing the right thing,” she repeated. “He never deserved you. A mechanic? We’ll find someone better.”
I didn’t reply. I threw a photo into the fire. Its edges curled, blackened. Gone.
Then I found it—an envelope addressed to Jim, buried in an old box. As it burned, a word caught the light: my name. I pulled it from the fire.
It was a letter—from my mother. “Our agreement still stands. If you leave my daughter, I will pay for…”
The rest was gone, but the damage was done.
Shaken, I went to Jim’s house. He wasn’t there. A neighbor said he’d been spending time at the hospital. I rushed there.
I found him in a dim room, holding a woman’s hand. “Jim,” I said. He turned, exhausted. “Kim?”
I showed him the letter. He nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “My sister needed urgent treatment. Insurance wouldn’t cover it. Your mother offered the money if I left you.”
Tears filled my eyes. “You could’ve told me.”
“I thought it would hurt less if you hated me.”
We sat in silence. I took his hand. “No more lies.”
That night, I confronted my mother. “I know everything,” I said. Her face went pale.
“You’ll finish paying for his sister’s care,” I said, voice cold. “And stay out of my life. Or you’ll lose me.”
She stammered, but I walked away.
Later, I returned to the hospital. Jim looked up, surprised.
“She’s going to help now,” I said. “And after that… we’ll figure it out. Together.”
He smiled—small, but real. Like hope.
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