After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Dying Daughter

The voice on the phone was Cyrus, my childhood neighbor. Growing up, he often joked about my looks and playfully claimed he would marry me someday. But life took a turn when he was incarcerated for some questionable activities, and by the time he was released, I had already married Damien. He didn't say much afterward, just sent me a hundred dollars through a mutual friend and disappeared for a year.

Recently, his friend handed me a note with Cyrus's number, explaining that he had become a small business owner and assured me that I could reach out to him if I faced any challenges. After a brief pause on the other end of the line, his voice was clear, “Wait for me—ten days.”

I walked with my child under the blistering sun for what felt like hours, my face flushed from the heat, yet my heart remained cold and weighed down. Before I realized it, I found myself outside my parents’ apartment building. They were sitting by the window on the second floor, gazing out at the world beyond.

Quickly, I ducked into a corner, letting my tears fall silently. In the past, my mother had fervently opposed my relationship with Damien, often using both harsh words and stern actions to express her disapproval. Her anger once filled me with resentment, leading me to question our bond. It wasn’t until the fire broke out that I understood the depth of her love.

As the burning beams came crashing down, she pushed me out of harm's way without hesitation. My father ushered me toward the door, only to return to her side. Through tear-filled eyes, he implored, "Sweetheart, I can’t let your mom face this alone. She fears being alone. Don’t mourn for us. Your Aunt Alice and Uncle Arturo are your real parents; we adopted you. Be good and live well."

But the exits were locked; there was no escape. In the end, the flames consumed us all. My poor decision to marry Damien led them to this tragic end, sacrificing themselves for a daughter who wasn’t truly theirs.

Ashamed and unable to face them, I clung to my child and cried my way back home. As I pushed open the gate to the courtyard, there was Damien's gang of rowdy friends setting up a table for drinks. Jalen was dressed in a leather jacket and flared pants, belting out tunes on his guitar in the yard, frightening my daughter into immediate, uncontrollable tears.

Damien, visibly annoyed, snapped, “Make her stop crying; it’s ruining the vibe.”

Jalen added with a grin, “How about some snacks, sis-in-law? I love your stew. Make plenty!”

Damien continued, “And cook some chicken soup for Gwendolyn to help her recover. Get inside; the kid’s crying is giving me a headache.”

I bit my lip and, without a word, carried my child inside.