Adelaide Trevelyan, my mother-in-law, was in the final stages of cancer, experiencing a brief period of lucidity. She wanted to take a family portrait with me and her daughter, Yedda Hewlett.

I had arranged for a photographer and picked out our outfits—everything was set. But as soon as Yedda received a phone call, she hurriedly left.

We waited until dusk, with Adelaide holding on by sheer will.

Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked me, "Is she back? Has Yedda come back?"

As I made the thirty-third call to Yedda, Adelaide could hold on no longer and quietly passed away.

At that very moment, Yedda's male best friend posted a photo of the two of them on Instagram with a caption: [It's great to have someone take care of you when you're drunk.]

After the funeral, I was overwhelmed with despair and dialed Yedda's number once more.

Before I could say anything, she answered, irritated. "How many times are you going to nag? I'm just changing clothes. I'll be there soon. Just wait there with my mom."

1

The thought of Adelaide passing without fulfilling her last wish felt like a stab to my heart.

I had intended to tell Yedda that her beloved mother was gone, but hearing her tone, I realized it no longer mattered.

"Yedda, forget the photo. Let's get a divorce."

Saying those words brought a sense of relief.

I never imagined I would be the one to walk away.

But the feeling of utter desolation made it impossible to forgive her as I once had.

After handling Adelaide's affairs, I wiped away my tears and headed to the photography studio.

The young woman at the front desk informed me that the photographer would be late and suggested I wait.

She was carrying a pizza to the meeting room and kindly offered. "Would you like to join me?"

I shook my head.

I didn't want to eat pizza ever again.

I was an orphan, and no one had ever made pizza just for me.

That changed when I visited Yedda's family. Adelaide had pushed a large pizza toward me, urging me to eat more.

She knew I had a rough upbringing and treated me like a son.

She'd said, "If you ever want more, just ask—I'll make them for you anytime."

Adelaide wasn't just my mother-in-law; she was like a real mother to me.

Now that she was gone, the family felt broken beyond repair.

The thought brought tears to my eyes.

I rubbed my eyes and suddenly heard laughter coming from the door.

As I wiped my eyes, I heard laughter from the entrance.

Yedda and Raymond Lattimore strolled in, teasing and playful, as if they were newlyweds.

Yedda's expression darkened when she saw me sitting on the sofa.

"Boyce, you didn't answer your phone. So, you came here first.

"Are you really going to suggest a divorce over something so trivial?"

I looked up at her meticulously made-up face, feeling nothing.

"So, the 'urgent matter' was abandoning your mother to be with him?"

"I've told you a million times—Raymond is my best friend. Don't you get that? If you're just being petty, you can just admit it. But don't use my mom as an excuse."

Raymond was Yedda's so-called best friend.

Their relationship was so close that they drank from the same bottle, wore matching outfits, and were overly familiar.

She used to justify it, saying, "I don't even think of him as a guy. And if we wanted to be together, it would've happened by now."

I loved her and believed her.

But as my tolerance grew, so did their inappropriate behavior.

They no longer avoided being alone together, and it led to countless arguments between Yedda and me—so many that I had already considered divorce.

But with Adelaide in the hospital battling late-stage cancer, I didn't want to add to her stress.

Now that Adelaide was gone, what reason did I have to stay?

"Think what you want," I replied coldly. "I'll send you the divorce papers later."

Yedda was stunned, but Raymond tightened his grip on her shoulder, standing tall as if he had won.

"Mate, I blacked out last night, and Yedda only helped me home because she was worried.

"You keep saying you love her, but you want a divorce over something this small? That's not very manly."

I let out a dry laugh and retorted, "If you were a real man, you wouldn't have gotten so drunk that you needed a married woman to take care of you.

"If you were a real man, you would've had the sense to call a cab instead of depending on her.

"I don't think you're much of a man, Raymond. In fact, what you're doing doesn't even qualify as human."

Smack.

Yedda slapped me across the face hard.

Yedda's face was etched with anger and disappointment.

"Raymond was sick all night yesterday. He was worried you'd be upset, so he came with me today to apologize.

"How could you scold him?"

Raymond immediately responded, "It doesn't matter if he yells at me. I'm more worried about your hand. Does it hurt?"

He gently massaged her hand, and the sight of it made my blood boil.

"It does matter! Apologize," Yedda demanded, her expression stern.

It was clear that if I didn't apologize, her hand might just find its way back to my face.

Looking at her, a face so reminiscent of her mother's, filled me with an indescribable sadness.

"Did I say anything wrong?" I countered.

"Raymond is a grown man; he could have called a cab. It's not like you're his only friend. Why did he have to call you?

"And if you had to go, why couldn't you wait until after the photoshoot? Would arriving a bit later have killed him?

"Do you know how long we waited for you? The photographer was about to leave, and Adelaide kept pleading with him to stay, but you never showed up."

As I spoke, the bitterness welled up inside me again.

Yedda's eyelashes fluttered. She looked somewhat guilty as she softened her tone.

"I thought you would have gone home by then. How was I supposed to know you'd wait there like idiots?

"Alright, I get it. You care about Mom, and she takes your side. But do you have to keep using her to guilt-trip me?"

Seeing the swelling on my face and sensing my cold demeanor, she reluctantly apologized.

"Fine, fine. It was my fault. I'll go to the hospital later and make it up to her."

I scoffed.

"Why didn't you think of that earlier? It's too late now."

Yedda had never been treated like this by me before.

Usually, whenever we argued, I'd back down as soon as she gave me an out.

She struggled to keep her anger in check. "Boyce Todd, you... you've gone too far."

Raymond, who had been watching with a smirk, added fuel to the fire.

"This is ridiculous. You're treating Yedda like a fool.

"You can't go a minute without dragging Adelaide into this, huh? You just want to make Yedda feel guilty."

Yedda suddenly stood up.

"Yes, I admit I stood you up yesterday. But I'm here now, aren't I? You don't have to be so dramatic.

"Besides, Mom was doing much better yesterday; she was even up and about. One night wouldn't make a difference, right?"

It wasn't improvement—it was just a final burst of energy.

"It does make a difference. A big one," I said through gritted teeth.

Raymond, clearly enjoying the tension, chuckled. "You're the one with the problem, Boyce, not her.

I was in no mood to argue with him.

He continued, "I get it—you're sick of taking care of Adelaide, so you're looking for an excuse to bail, right?

"She doesn't like me, but I could take over for you. Or is it that you're worried I'll screw things up?

"I mean, come on, you look like you're blaming me for her condition."

I clenched my fists, anger welling up inside.

Adelaide's cancer was terminal, but Raymond had played a part in her rapid decline.

After Adelaide's surgery, she was stable—until Raymond, feverish with the flu, decided to visit my home while I was out of town.

Adelaide, already frail, caught the flu from him, and by that evening, she was in the ICU.

Her health spiraled from there.

"What? Cat got your tongue? Did I hit a nerve?" Raymond sneered.

"Yedda, I've seen guys like him before—big talk, no action. He says he won't do the photoshoot, but look at him, already here sulking.

"Stop pretending, Boyce. Adelaide would die of a heart attack if she saw that scowl. If you don't want to care for her, just leave. Who are you putting on this act for?"

"Acting? I'll show you acting!"

I couldn't hold back any longer. My fist flew towards Raymond's face, landing with a satisfying crunch.

Raymond clutched his nose as blood streamed down, fury in his eyes.

"You fucking hit me?"

"Shut the fuck up!" I spat, raising my fist again.

But before I could strike, Yedda grabbed my arm, holding me back with all her strength.

She shook her head, her face filled with weariness.

"Boyce, I used to think you were a responsible man. Now, seeing you consumed by jealousy—it's disgusting.

"Can't you two take this outside?"

The receptionist, a young woman, had a pained expression as clients began filtering into the room.

I didn't want to be around them any longer and needed to clear my head.

I stepped out, ignoring Raymond's parting threat.

"Boyce, this isn't over."

Leaning against the wall outside, I lit a cigarette.

I knew exactly why he targeted me—because he genuinely liked Yedda.

But Adelaide had seen through him, recognizing his petty and spiteful nature, and had refused to accept him.

So, he settled into the role of the "best friend," biding his time.

He never imagined that Yedda and I would fall in love and eventually get married.

Unable to let it go, he saw me as a thorn in his side, always encouraging Yedda to argue with me or stirring up trouble so he could swoop in and play the hero.

I crushed the cigarette underfoot and was about to call the photographer when the screech of brakes echoed behind me.

I turned to see several men dismounting from motorcycles, each wielding a club.

I recognized them—Raymond's lowlife friends.

Their faces were full of malice.

"You didn't even run after hitting my buddy? Standing here like you're waiting to die?"

I reached for my phone to call the police, but they knocked it out of my hand and dragged me into a nearby alley.

As they hauled me into the shadows, I saw Raymond and Yedda strolling toward us, side by side.

Yedda looked conflicted, but the disappointment was written all over her face.

"Boyce, my mom treated you like her own son. If you didn't want to take care of her, fine. But to blame me? And then to hit Raymond?

"You've really let me down."

The men held me firmly as Raymond stepped forward and punched me in the face.

"That's for what you owe Adelaide," he snarled.

The world spun, and I felt the warmth of blood trickling from my nose.

Thud.

Another punch landed squarely on my jaw.

"And this one's for me."

Raymond pulled back to strike again, but Yedda stopped him. "That's enough. If you hit him any harder, we might end up in real trouble."

Perhaps noticing a passerby approaching, Raymond reluctantly dropped his fists.

I slumped to the ground, blood streaming down my face, laughing hysterically.

One of the thugs holding me down muttered, "Raymond, you've knocked something loose in his head."

They spat on me in disgust before hurrying off.

Maybe I really was losing it.

No one understood how much pain—real, physical pain—could bring a strange, almost perverse relief to someone as numb as I was.

A part of me even craved it.

Why hadn't Raymond just finished me off?

Then I could be with Adelaide again.

I couldn't imagine how lonely she must have been, how much she must have yearned to hold on, to get that one last family photo.

And yet, was it really so hard to make that wish come true?

Just then, my phone rang where it lay on the ground.

It was the photographer we had booked.

Before I could reach it, Yedda snatched it up.

"Yes, we're on our way," she said sweetly.

Then, looking at me, disheveled and beaten, her expression turned to one of contempt.

"Boyce, looking at you now, there's no way we can take that family photo.

"I don't want you ruining my mom's last wish."

I kept my gaze down, not even wanting to look at her.

Perhaps trying to provoke me further, she looped her arm through Raymond's, her voice turning soft and tender.

"We'll take the family photo—the three of us."