My Marriage Died with My Mother

My husband wanted his childhood sweetheart to taste the delicious lingonberry flavors, so he sent my mother to gather some of it. She braved the rain to climb the mountain and pick them, but encountered a landslide. When I arrived at the hospital, all I saw was my mother's lifeless body, clutching a branch of the berry tightly in her hand. Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to reach my husband by phone. When I found that he was updating his social media with intimate photos of himself and that woman, I lose my mind. They would pay for this.

“Our condolences. We apologize for not reaching her on time,” said one of the rescue team members, sincerity evident in their words. “The rain was pouring heavily and the terrain was quite challenging. The area she went to is prone to landslides, but that's not an excuse. This is our fault.” 

My eyes widened involuntarily, and I knew it made me appear as if I were holding back anger. But I was too shocked to look away or blink. Every movement system in my body felt like they were having a major shutdown.

“Why is she angry? It's not even our fault,” muttered a younger rescue team member beside me. He seemed annoyed. “Besides, who the heck is in their right mind allowed an old woman to go to the forest alone to pick berries in such heavy rain?” 

“Shush, Hansen,” the senior rescuer reprimanded. 

“What? I’m not taking a blame for an old lady’s death which was actually the fault of her guardian!”  The younger member grew angrier as he spoke. “I know our job is to save lives, but we're not God. We can't bring someone back to life after they've been buried six-feet under landslide. It was an accident.”

“That's enough, Hansen!” The older rescuer snapped. “Hansen is our newest member. He's still learning the ropes, and he needs to keep his mouth shut immediately,” he said to me with regret, glaring at Hansen at the end. 

“We are really sorry,” with that, they walked away. I didn’t understand why mother insisted on going to the mountain in the midst of heavy rain. As I tried to process what had happened, Hansen's words echoed in my mind. 

“Wait!” With great effort, I finally snapped out of mind and hastened to catch up with them. “What did you say? W-what did my mother go up the mountain in the middle of the rain for?” 

Hansen's eyes widened. The two rescue teams exchanged glances before turning back to me. He seemed hesitant before answering.

“She went to pick lingonberries. Did she want the berries so badly that she was willing to risk her life for them? Or did someone send her to do it? Was it you who wanted it? Do you regret it now that this has happened?”

When they told me the cause of her death, it felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck me. My mind went blank, and for a moment, I couldn't comprehend what I was hearing. The words echoed in my ears, heavy and suffocating. How could such a tragic fate befall her? She had gone out innocently, simply to gather wild vegetables. The realization hit me like a wave crashing over me, leaving me stunned and paralyzed. In that moment, the world around me seemed to fade into a blur, and the weight of grief settled upon me like a suffocating cloak.

In an instant, clarity pierced through the fog of shock and grief. Without a moment's hesitation, I grabbed my phone and began dialing my husband's number with frantic urgency, my fingers trembling against the screen. 

“The number you have dialed is not in service.”

Each unanswered ring fueled my desperation, driving me to persist despite the mounting anxiety and dread in my chest. With each failed attempt to reach him, frustration surged through me like a relentless tide, compelling me to redial again and again. Consumed by a mixture of rage and despair, I slammed the phone down with a force at the end. 

I couldn't think of anyone else who would make such an unreasonable demand to eat wild vegetables apart from my husband.

I opened WhatsApp, my fingers trembling as I navigated with a mix of dread and determination. Intent on calling him again, my gaze shifted to the top of the screen where his recent status update caught my eye.  A familiar profile picture that pierced through my already shattered emotions. 

[My dear wife looks stunning!]

In that moment, time seemed to stand still as I stared at the image, my heart sinking with the realization of what it meant. It was a picture of him, smiling warmly alongside her—the woman I had suspected, the mistress he had kept hidden from me. The sight pierced through me like a dagger, unleashing a torrent of emotions—betrayal, disbelief, and a consuming fury that threatened to engulf me. 

At the same time, I began to speculate why my mother insisted on picking the wild berries in heavy rain. Tears fell as I looked at the sweet smiles of the two people on the screen. “I will make this pair of adult pay!”

After settling affairs with my mother's remains, I returned home in a daze, holding a flimsy death certificate in my hand.

“Where have you been?” My husband began bombarding me with questions the moment I stepped into the house. “You've been gone for days without a word, not even a call. Have you been out seeing another man?”

What a ridiculous question. I forced myself to suppress the overflowing hatred in my heart and asked him, “I disappeared without a word? I called you over and over, but you didn't pick up. Where were you?”

“I have a business to do!” He snapped. He seemed regretful for a split second, then his face hardened again. “Didn't I tell you before that I was going on a business trip? Do you think I went out to meet another woman?”

I stared at him and sneered, throwing the printed photo in my hand hard at his face. The sharp edge of the paper cut him, leaving a bloody mark there.

He was seething with anger, his face contorted as if he might lunge at me, but his demeanor abruptly shifted when he glanced at the contents of the photograph. His expression hardened, and with a swift motion, he crumpled the picture in his hand.

“So what if I'm with her?” he snapped, his voice sharp with defiance. “You have no right to pry into my life. Why are you acting crazy? I don't understand you.”

His words cut through the air like a blade, leaving me momentarily speechless. The accusation stung, but I knew there was more at stake than just my feelings. I needed answers.

Before I could gather my thoughts, he fixed me with a piercing glare. “Where are the berries?” he demanded, his tone betraying a mix of frustration and urgency.

I stood there, paralyzed by the realization sinking in. It was really him all along—the person I had suspected but hoped against hope was innocent. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably as I screamed at him, “Why did you tell my mother go pick berries on a rainy day! She has been so good to you. How could you do that to her!”

My husband fell silent after hearing my words and said harshly, “If it weren't for your mother treating me so well, I would have divorced a crazy woman like you long ago!”

“And what’s the problem with me seeing another women? At least they're not jealous lunatics like you.” Then, he pushed me roughly and said, “Go get you mother and ask her to bring those berries out. I can still pretend that this isn’t happened. Otherwise, don’t blame me if I get rough. Esther has been feeling unwell lately and she said she just wants to eat that. I won't forgive you if you get in my way,” said my husband with a snort.

Anger filled my mind as I stepped forward and delivered a hard slap across his face, “My mother has been very good to you, how could tell her to do that!”

My slap seemed to ignite his anger. “Can’t you be over with it? Yes, she's been good to me. So what? I never forced her to. She did it of her own will.”

“Now, where’s the damn berries?” he yelled.

I didn't say anything, just holding the death certificate in my hand. He seemed to have reached the end of his patience and stepped forward to snatch the death certificate from my hands, viciously tearing it into tiny pieces.

He glared at me, frustration and impatience etched on his face. With a sudden burst of rage, he lunged forward and snatched the death certificate from my grasp, ripping it viciously into tiny shreds. The pieces of paper fell to the ground like confetti.

“I'm so sick of your act!” he spat, his words dripping with venom. He slammed the door shut and left.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as I gathered all the torn pieces of paper. Each shred felt like a piece of my shattered heart, fragmented by the harsh reality I couldn't escape. With trembling hands, I painstakingly pieced the death certificate back together, methodically aligning the edges and securing them with tape. As I worked, a mixture of grief, anger, and determination fueled my movements.

Once the certificate was restored as best as I could manage, I placed it on the living room table, alongside the divorce agreement I had prepared long ago. But I wouldn't let him walk away unscathed. I wouldn't let him believe he could manipulate and deceive without consequence.

“I won't let you go away with this, Lucian Robinson,” I whispered to the empty room,