Not My Fault

Michael Thompson, a shell of a man at 58, lay dying in a sterile nursing home bed.

His wife, Brenda, had passed a year prior, but her final words were still a fresh wound.

"Michael," she' d whispered with a chilling, triumphant smile, "The children… David and Sarah… they' re not yours."

"They' re Rick' s. It was always Rick."

His rival, the man he despised, the one she supposedly hated with him.

His entire life, every sacrifice for their family, every dream deferred, was a cruel, elaborate lie.

He' d given everything, only to be drained emotionally and financially by the woman he loved.

After her funeral, the children he' d raised had swiftly and efficiently stripped him of his assets, leaving him abandoned in this desolate place.

Deep regret, a bitter acid, burned in his chest.

If only he could go back, know then what he knew now.

His last, ragged breath escaped into the silence of the room, followed by darkness.

Then, a jarring burst of music blared.