The dirt was still fresh on my father’s grave when my mother decided to move on.
Two weeks. That was all it took.
I stood in the living room of the house I grew up in, still wearing the black dress from the funeral, while Helen—my mother—smiled like she hadn’t just buried the only parent who ever actually loved me.
“I’ve met someone,” she said, voice bright, almost giddy. “His name is Maddox. He’s… well, he’s everything I need right now. We’re getting married next month.”
The words hit me harder than the sight of the coffin going into the ground.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stared at her until the silence became unbearable, then I turned and walked out of the house without another word.
That night I went to a club.
Not the kind of place with cheap drinks and sticky floors.
