Forty Years a Stranger

I quickly threw myself forward, shielding the last bit of the burning paper with my body as the marriage certificates turned to ash.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Luke snapped from behind. “What are you burning? Are you deaf in your old age?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even flinch.

Annoyed by my silence, Luke stormed over to see for himself. But all he found was a pile of ashes. Just as he was about to question me further, Camila walked in.

She was three years younger than me, yet she looked twenty years younger—elegant, radiant, effortlessly beautiful. Standing next to her, I felt like a shadow of myself. I couldn’t help but wonder—if I hadn’t been burdened with endless responsibilities, would I look like that too?

“Sister, why are you hiding at home while everyone else is out having fun?” she asked, wrapping her arm around mine like we were childhood best friends. “Is it because you hate me?”

Her voice was honeyed, her smile sweet, but I could feel the venom underneath.

Luke glanced at me with a smirk. His thoughts were written all over his face: She’s jealous. Jealous because I video chatted with Camila. She’s so old, yet she still throws tantrums like a schoolgirl, always waiting for someone to coax her. Look at her—skin sagging, clinging to childish games. Pathetic.

Camila’s eyes sparkled with mockery, though her tone remained gentle and innocent.

“Oh, sister,” she said, “there’s nothing going on between your husband and me. If there were, do you think you’d even be part of the picture? Honestly, I’m prettier, more more well-mannered—men always go for someone like me.”

Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm and dragged me outside. I resisted, but she was persistent, forcing me to follow her all the way to the restaurant.

As soon as we stepped into the private dining room, something cold and greasy smacked me in the face.

A piece of fatty meat.

Then came the sharp, impatient voice of my grandson.

“I told you not to eat with her! She always shakes when she eats. Every time she lifts her spoon, food ends up all over the table. It’s disgusting! She ruins my appetite. My stomach issues are all her fault!”

I froze. I looked down at my hands—worn, callused, trembling uncontrollably.

Three years ago, he was playing in the street when a car came speeding toward him. I ran without hesitation, threw myself in front of the vehicle and pushed him out of harm’s way. I was thrown nearly five meters and never fully recovered. The trembling had never stopped since.

Back then, he clutched my hands and sobbed, “I’m sorry, Grandma. It’s my fault you’re like this now. I’ll take care of you forever. I’ll never let you get hurt again.”

But now… he had ripped open that wound and stomped on it in front of everyone.

My son frowned, then picked up a bowl, filled it with rice and meat and tossed it on the floor in front of me.

“Mom, you really do kill my appetite. And since Aunt Camila is here today, please don’t ruin her mood. Just sit on the ground and eat.”

Shame rose in my chest like a burning flood.

My fists clenched at my sides. But my stomach was cramping with hunger and in the end, I bent down to pick up the bowl. Just one more day. They’ll leave tomorrow and I’ll be free. I can endure this. Just until tomorrow.

But before my fingers even touched the bowl, my grandson kicked it over.

White rice and chunks of meat splattered across the floor.

Before I could react, he pointed his finger at my nose and shouted, “Didn’t I tell you not to eat with us? You said you didn’t want to be my grandma anymore. So you’re not family. Get out. You’re not welcome here!”

I stood frozen, unable to speak, unable to move.

Then Luke shoved me toward the door.

His eyes were cold with contempt. “I told you not to speak recklessly. Who told you to give the child to Camila? And now what? Regret it? Well, too late. Today’s supposed to be a good day. Don’t ruin the mood. You don’t need to eat. Wait outside. I’ll bring you leftovers later.”

And with that, he slammed the door in my face.

I stood there, humiliated, as passing strangers glanced at me with curious, pitiful eyes. I felt stripped bare—exposed, degraded.

Just then, the door creaked open again. Camila appeared, holding a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

“Sister,” she said sweetly, “don’t be upset over what a child said. I brought you some soup. Drink it while it’s still hot.”

I opened my mouth to refuse, but in the next moment—before I could utter a single word—she tilted the bowl and poured the soup onto her own hands.

She let out a shriek.

“Oh no, Sister! I know you’ve never liked me, but did you have to scald me with hot water? These hands… I need them to play the piano!”

Before I could defend myself, Luke stormed out—and his palm crashed against my cheek.