My Husband is Playing Truth or Dare With My Mother's Life

On a stormy day, my husband, Michael Scott, called my mom and asked her to buy him a mango cake.

My mom braved the downpour to get the cake but got into a serious accident on the way.

By the time I received the message and got to the hospital, my mom was already at death's door.

"Michael wanted mango cake, but I ruined it. I'm so useless..."

Before she could finish her words, she passed away.

Until her death, she was still holding the broken mango cake.

With tears in my eyes, I called Michael like twenty times before he answered. Finally, he picked up his phone, but the first words came out of his mouth angered me, "What's the color of your bra today?"

Listening to the laughter coming from the other end of the phone, I felt so bitter. Rage burst in me as I questioned, "You're allergic to mango, Michael. Why the hell did you ask my mom to buy you a mango cake?"

Over the phone, I heard his childhood friend's tearful voice, "Sarah, it was my fault. I lost a game of truth or dare, and Michael took the punishment for me by asking your mom to get the mango cake. If you're going to blame someone, blame me!"

I wiped my tears and said coldly, "Please tell your lover to come back and divorce me when he's available."

Michael softly comforted Emily for a while, then finally replied with irritation, "Fine, we can get a divorce, but leave Emily out of it."

I dragged my tired body, without crying or making trouble. I silently handled my mom's funeral.

For three consecutive days, Michael seemed to have disappeared. I received neither message nor call from him.

I don't really expect him to do anything.

I just feel bad for my mom.

"Cook me a bowl of spaghetti."

Three days later, Michael finally returned home.

He took off his suit jacket and slumped down on the sofa.

It was as if the whole of him had been hollowed out.

The faint scent of Emily's perfume still lingered on his suit.

In the past, I would prepare meals for him in the kitchen and serve him properly.

When we got married, he told me that happiness was coming home to someone who’s waiting for you with a warm meal.

Because of what he said, I prepared dinner waited for him in the dim light every day in the past five years.

But this time, I sat in a corner of the sofa, quietly watching him.

Noticing I hadn’t moved for a while, Michael stood up, looked at my puffy, tear-filled eyes, and frowned, "Are you still angry about the game? It's just a small thing."

I looked at him, my voice trembling with anger and sorrow, "A small thing? You think sending my mom out in a storm to get something you never even wanted is a small thing?"

It was this so-called little thing of his that caused my mom's death.

When I thought about how my mother was still blaming herself for not delivering the cake before she died, I couldn't help but feel bitter.

Michael was momentarily taken aback by my sudden agitation. "Is Mom mad?" he asked. "Don't worry, I'll smooth things over with her later. She always spoils me; she'll forgive me for sure."

After saying that, Michael threw an exquisite gift box in front of me.

"I bought this gift especially for you. Do you like it?"

I glanced at the packaging and it was a women's handbag.

He said he bought it specially for me.

But the outer packaging had obviously been opened.

If I remember correctly, this bag appeared in Emily's Instagram two days ago.

She captioned it at the time: [He said he wanted to give me the best.]

The accompanying picture was a photo of Emily happily holding the limited edition handbag.

In the far corner of the photo, there was a bag in the dustbin.

The one Michael gave me now.

How ridiculous.

Give me the unwanted gifts that others throw in the trash.

I laughed at myself and said calmly, "When are we getting a divorce?"

Michael's face darkened and he frowned. "Sarah, are you serious?"

"Divorce is fine, only if I hear it from the mouth of Mom. I don't believe she'll agree to it."

After saying that, Michael slammed the door and left.

Michael got angry.

It was like this every time we quarreled. No matter whose fault it was, he would slam the door and refuse to talk.

In the end, I was the one who humbled myself for him and wrapped up the quarrel.

But this time, I wouldn't.

I took out the drafted divorce agreement from my bag and looked at it carefully.

Then I dragged my suitcase and left resolutely.