When His Mistress Scattered My Mother's Ashes at Our Gala

I went to the funeral home on Tuesday.

I'd called ahead. Made an appointment. The woman on the phone had been kind. She'd walked me through the options. Burial. Cremation. Service arrangements.

I told her I wanted to see my mother first. Before we decided anything.

She'd said that would be fine.

The funeral home was in Midtown. Old building. Quiet. The kind of place that smelled like lilies and furniture polish.

A man in a dark suit met me at the door. He had soft hands. A gentle voice.

"Ms. Edwards," he said. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

I nodded.

He led me down a hallway. We stopped at a door. He opened it.

The room was empty.

"I don't understand," I said.

He looked confused. He checked his clipboard.

"Mrs. Edwards," he read. "Admitted on the fourteenth. Released to family on the sixteenth."

"Released?"

"The remains were collected," he said carefully. "Two days ago. The paperwork is all here. Signed and authorized."

He showed me the clipboard.

There was a signature at the bottom. Neat. Precise.

*Melany Gomez — Authorized Family Representative*

"That's not family," I said quietly.

"I'm sorry?" He leaned closer.

"That woman isn't family. She had no right."

His face changed. Concern. Then worry.

"Ms. Edwards, the authorization was filed through the hospital's insurance administrator. Everything was in order. We verified the documents before release."

"Where did she take her?"

"I—I don't have that information. The remains were collected for private cremation. That's all the paperwork indicates."

I stared at him.

"You gave my mother to a stranger."

"Ms. Edwards, I assure you, we followed protocol—"

I walked out.

I didn't remember getting to my car. I didn't remember driving.

But I was outside Darren's office building. The tower. Glass and steel. His name on the directory.

I took the elevator to the executive floor.

The receptionist looked up. She recognized me. She always did. She never smiled.

"Is he in a meeting?" I asked.

"Yes, but—"

I walked past her.

Darren's office was at the end of the hall. The door was open. He was at the conference table. Melany sat beside him. Three other executives across from them.

I walked in.

Darren looked up. His expression shifted. Irritation.

"Freyja. I'm in the middle of something."

"Where is she?" I looked at Melany.

Melany blinked. She tilted her head. Concerned. Confused.

"I'm sorry?"

"My mother. Where are her ashes?"

The room went quiet.

Melany glanced at Darren. Then back at me. Her face was soft. Sympathetic.

"Freyja, sweetheart, I'm not sure what you mean."

"The funeral home said you collected her remains. Two days ago. You signed the paperwork."

Melany's eyes widened. She pressed a hand to her chest.

"Oh my god. There must be some kind of administrative error. I didn't—Darren, I would never—"

She looked at him. Her voice trembled.

"I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding. I'll look into it immediately. I promise."

Darren turned to me.

"Let Melany handle it," he said. His voice was flat. "This isn't the time or place."

"She took my mother."

"Freyja." He closed his laptop. Slowly. "You're grieving. You're confused. Melany will sort this out. Go home."

I looked at Melany.

She looked back at me.

Her eyes were bright. Clear.

She smiled. Just a little.

I turned and walked out.

I heard Melany's voice behind me. Soft. Apologetic.

"I'm so sorry, Darren. Grief can do terrible things to a person's mind."

I took the elevator down.

I sat in my car in the parking garage.

I called the funeral home. I called the hospital. I called the insurance company.

No one had records of where the ashes went.

No one could help me.

My mother was gone.

And I would never get her back.

Three weeks passed.

I stopped asking.

I stopped calling.

I moved through the penthouse like a shadow. I cleaned. I cooked. I folded laundry.

Darren didn't ask if I was okay.

He never asked.

On a Thursday afternoon, Melany came to the penthouse.

She knocked on the door. I opened it.

She was holding a gift bag. Tissue paper. Ribbon.

"Freyja," she said gently. "I wanted to check on you. I've been so worried."

I said nothing.

"I know these past few weeks have been impossibly hard," she continued. "Losing your mother. The confusion at the funeral home. All of it."

She stepped inside. Uninvited.

"I wanted to suggest something," she said. "Darren has a charity gala coming up. Waterfront venue. Beautiful location. I think it might be good for you. A fresh start. A chance to be around people again."

I stared at her.

"You don't have to decide now," she said. She set the gift bag on the counter. "But think about it. Sometimes the best way to heal is to keep moving forward."

She touched my arm. Her hand was warm.

"We're all here for you, sweetheart."

She left.

I looked at the gift bag.

I didn't open it.

I walked to the window. I looked out at the city.

I thought about my mother.

I thought about the ashes I would never hold.

I thought about Melany's smile.

And I knew—without proof, without evidence, with nothing but the hollow certainty in my chest—that she had done something unspeakable.

And I would never be able to prove it.

I touched my wrist.

The locket was gone.

My mother was gone.

I was alone.

Completely alone.

I closed my eyes.

And I waited for whatever came next.