My Ex's Betrayal, My Mother's Ashes

Osborn

belief housed in a cage of rage. But he spoke over me, his fing

lie to m

ancine, who was now weeping with a practiced, delicate theatricality into her p

'he is merely tired' to patch the widening fissures between us. But as he forced me before her, a supplicant to her lie, I heard

t believe me? Carter, it is I. It has been I for eigh

For the space of a single heartbeat, I saw a flicker of the

gain, the sound a sharper crack in the quiet room. "It is my fault," she cried, her voice thick with a cloying, false guilt. "I ou

ed in glass. Her investment, his company, the

esh conflagration of fury directed wholly at m

st, taken eight years ago, his arm a possessive loop around my shoulders, his eyes bright with what I had then mistaken for devotion-pitched forward and fell. The sound of the

ered beyond all recognition. The allegory was so crude, so painf

m. Without another word, I stepped over the glittering debris and walked from the room. I was

zed. A message from him. "Family dinner

fusal, another appeared. "Y

ndition as fragile as a sparrow's egg. The slightest stress, the barest whisper of trouble betw

. The moment I saw my mother, her face illuminated with a love that threatened to break me, I felt the per

He was not alone. Francine was affixed to his arm, draped in an elegant even

return. "Francine, how lovely to see you. Ami

cally family," he said, his eyes locking with mine, issuing a silent, unmistakable threat

ce a low, menacing current beneath the hum of conversation. "Apologize to her before

ather, utterly oblivious. The image of her collapsing, of the worst imag

a small price

s if moving through deep water. "Francine," I said

of victory. She plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray and held it out