Like Love Faded In The Wind

Zeke's mother's smile was warm—almost gentle—so unlike how she looked at me. But the moment her eyes landed on my face, the warmth vanished, replaced by the same cold resentment I'd come to expect.

She pulled Dylan behind her, shielding him.

"What are you doing here? Trying to hurt my precious grandson?" Her voice was shrill. "Even if you shamelessly refuse to divorce, you can't change his blood. Dylan and Zia will be parts of our family. And you? After making my son suffer for all these years, our family does not recognize you as a daughter-in-law."

I let out a bitter laugh, not knowing how to respond.

Dylan glanced longingly at the biscuit in my hand. Without a word, she snatched it away.

I hadn't flinched when I first learned of Zeke's affair. Not even when Zia came to confront me. But this time, I ran.

Because I hadn't eaten dinner, the stomach pains came back.

Curled up in bed, the agony blurred my senses. My fingers moved on their own, dialing a number I'd called more times than I could count.

It wasn't long before warm water and a pill touched my lips.

Time rewound, just for a moment, to the days when we were still in love. Whenever my stomach acted up, he would be there—first to arrive, first to offer relief. I later found out he always carried a little pill case in the pocket closest to his heart.

Just like now, he reached instinctively into his shirt, poured several pills into my hand. "You forgot to buy medicine again, didn't you? I still have plenty."

"Even if I'm not around," he said gently, "you have to take care of yourself."

Tears burst from my eyes.

"I don't want the medicine," I sobbed. "I just want you. I want you, not the pills. Please, don't leave me."

He held me tight. "Okay, okay. I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay. I'll always stay. I know you didn't mean the divorce stuff. You were just angry. I would never divorce you."

Zeke kissed my forehead. His voice was soft, and it quieted the storm inside me.

He told me he had been driving home when he got my call, and he turned around immediately.

He told me I was still the one he cared about most.

So we lay there, talking like we used to—like newlyweds wrapped in a sugar-sweet dream.

Curled in his arms, I thought: if this were a dream, I'd never want to wake up.

But then, a child coughed outside the room. His eyes flicked toward the door.

"Zia and Dylan are still outside," he said, avoiding my gaze. "Should I let them in?"

I froze.

And just like that, the dream shattered.

The door opened.

Zia stepped in, holding Dylan's hand.

In the dim light, I looked at her closely for the first time.

Her hair flowed down her back. She wore a trendy spaghetti-strap maxi dress I wouldn't have dared to wear even in my youth.

She was young, stylish, vibrant.

And me? I was a mess from writhing in pain just moments ago. Disheveled. Drained.

Zeke used to say he liked intellectual women. Said my writing was beautiful, that I aged like fine wine.

But here he was, doting on a pretty young thing.

As Zia stepped through the doorway, she tripped on a slipper.

Zeke rushed to catch her—didn't hesitate, didn't look back. And I, without his support, collapsed back onto the bed.

The pills fell from his hands, clattering to the floor—abandoned, so he could steady her.

She gave me a quick, apologetic smile. "Carrie, I assume Zeke already told you? We didn't mean to bother you so late. But it's about Dylan—it's urgent."

I stared blankly at Zeke.

Told me?

Wasn't he here tonight just to bring me medicine?

"It's nothing big," she said, as if clarifying would help. "We just need you to take care of Dylan."