He Left Me for Dead, Now He Begs Me for Mercy

I gripped the bag on my shoulder tighter. The box inside felt heavier than before. I nodded slowly.

“Cleo’s—” Right then, a kid ran into me. I fell to the floor and scraped my wrist hard. The urn almost slipped out. I caught it just in time. “Watch it!” I snapped.

The boy was Jude. Ruby’s son. He stood there glaring. “You watch it! Why are you even back?” he shouted.

Torren growled, “That’s enough, Jude. Therese, he’s just a kid. Don’t start.”

Ruby stepped in, as if she owned the place. She rested her palm on Torren’s chest and looked up at him like she belonged there.

“Don’t be mad,” she whispered. “Sorry for causing trouble again. Jude and I... we’ll go.”

Torren clenched his jaw and pointed at me. “You didn’t do anything wrong. She did.”

The words ripped something open inside me. I could feel it bleeding. They were a family now. I was just the ghost in the hall then Jude suddenly lunged for my backpack.

“Is there food in here? I’m hungry!”

The urn slipped again. It hit the floor with a hard thud.

“No!” I gasped. “Don’t touch that!”

Jude reached for it with his filthy little hands. “What is it? I wanna eat it!”

I shoved him without thinking. I didn’t care. I’d already lost too much.

Torren barked, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? He’s a child! You think this is okay?”

Jude yanked my hair, screaming. I bit down on my sobs as pain shot through my scalp.

“It’s Cleo’s,” I whispered. “It’s... his—”

Ruby pulled Torren back gently. “Let it go,” she cooed. “If it’s Cleo’s, then Jude shouldn’t have it.”

Torren scoffed. “This is my house. I decide who touches what.”

I clutched the box to my chest and walked to the bedroom without another word.

Torren thought I was sulking. He snorted behind me and muttered something under his breath before escorting Ruby and Jude out like royalty.

That night, I packed my clothes and filled out the divorce papers. I put Cleo’s urn by my side and stared at it for hours.

---

That night, I dreamed of Cleo again.

He was crying. In pain. Wandering barefoot through some endless hallway made of glass, the walls so clean they reflected nothing, just silence and light and emptiness. He kept calling out, voice raw, desperate.

“Dad? Daddy? Where are you?”

He wasn’t looking for me. He was looking for Torren.

My chest cracked open in the dream. I kept reaching for him, running, but I could never catch up. He was always just out of reach... those tiny hands that used to grip my fingers so tightly when he was scared, now slipping further and further away.

I dropped to my knees and begged.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Over and over again.

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve never left you.”

When I woke up, I was already on the floor beside the bed, hands clasped in prayer. Praying that wherever he was now, he wasn’t hurting anymore. Praying that the pain hadn’t followed him into death.

The room was still. Torren’s glass mansion stretched wide around me—all sleek walls and cold air and modern silence. It always felt like a place meant for looking good in magazines, not for raising children. Definitely not for grieving them.

I wrapped my arms around my knees. My pillow was soaked. My nightgown clung to my skin, and my chest ached like something had been carved out from under the ribs.

And then I remembered.

The slow shift. The way Torren’s affection dried up like sunbaked riverbeds.

How, the moment Ruby returned, he started talking about Jude like he was royalty.

“Jude’s a smart kid,” he told me once, like it was fact, not opinion. “He’s respectful. Kind. Healthy.”

Not like Cleo.

He didn’t say those last words out loud.

But I heard them anyway. Because a few weeks before Cleo got sick, Torren looked me in the eye and said,

“Sometimes I wonder if that child’s even mine. If he is, he’s definitely not heir material. Too weak. Always sick. That’s not the kind of bloodline I want leading anything.”

I remember standing there, speechless.

I’d spent years trying to earn his love, believing if I could just be better... softer, smarter, more loyal... he’d come back to me.

But I never imagined he’d strip that love from our son, too.

Cleo adored him. Worshipped him. Always wanted to show him his drawings, his little trophies from school, the paper medals he made out of foil and hope.

But Torren never looked. And when Cleo got sick, really sick, Torren didn’t lift a finger.

He was too busy planning Jude’s birthday party. Balloons. Private magician. Imported cake. A new bicycle that probably cost more than the hospital bill I had to beg the nurses to freeze.

Cleo died with no father at his bedside.

Just me.

Just silence.

Just my son’s voice echoing in my nightmares,

“Daddy? Where are you?”

And the truth is, I hate myself.

Because maybe, just maybe, if I had taken him and run… He’d still be alive. But I didn’t. And now all I have are dreams. And cold rooms. And a hollowed-out chest where his laughter used to live.

Then outside, I heard stumbling footsteps. Voices.

I cracked the door open and saw Torren drunk off his mind, leaning against Ruby as she held him up.

“Torren,” she whispered, “are you sure you want to go to her room? It’s late... she might still be awake.”

Torren chuckled darkly.

“Why the hell would I go to her? She was a bitch to Jude.”

Ruby led him to her room. She didn’t close the door all the way. I heard everything. Her breathless voice. His groans. The bed creaking. All of it.

I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I just stared at the wall with my hands folded in my lap like some quiet ghost.

In the morning, I made hangover soup and placed it on the table like always. Like none of it happened.

Torren sat down and rubbed his forehead. He looked tired. Or maybe guilty.

“I got back real late,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Didn’t wanna wake you, so I just slept in Jude’s room.”

I nodded and said, “Okay.”

I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t call him out. I knew better. He relaxed, thinking it meant I was still the obedient, soft-spoken wife who’d always play dumb.

Then I slid a form across the table.