Chapter 1 - The Hundredth Day
Julian’s knees buckled beneath him.
The designer suitcase fell from his hand and struck the hardwood floor with a heavy thud. One of its wheels spun slowly beside the memorial altar.
For several seconds, he did not speak.
He only stared at the photograph of his mother.
Eleanor Vance smiled from the frame, wearing the cream-colored dress she had worn to our wedding. White lilies surrounded her portrait. Three incense sticks burned quietly in a ceramic dish, their smoke curling toward the ceiling.
A warm plate of her favorite meal sat before the photo.
Chicken soup with rice.
Soft bread.
Coffee with one spoonful of sugar.
The way she liked it before illness took away her appetite.
Julian crawled closer.
“No,” he whispered. “No. This isn’t real.”
Chloe stood frozen near the door, the baby pressed against her chest.
“You said your mother was fine,” she said.
Julian turned toward me, his face twisted with panic.
“You told me she was stable.”
“I told you she was getting worse,” I replied.
He shook his head wildly.
“You said she had an infection.”
“She had several.”
“You said she was in the hospital.”
“She was. For eighteen days.”
He reached for his phone.
“I called you,” I continued. “Thirty-seven times during her final month.”
His fingers stopped moving.
“You texted me?” he asked.
“I left voicemails. I sent updates. I sent photos. I told you when she stopped recognizing the nurses. I told you when she asked for you.”
His face drained of color.
“She asked for me?”
“Every day.”
Julian lowered his head.
The house became silent except for the soft sound of the baby breathing against Chloe’s shoulder.
Then he looked toward the altar again.
“When did she die?”
“One hundred days ago.”
He stared at me as if the number itself had struck him.
“One hundred days.”
“Yes.”
“You held the memorial without me?”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“You were not missing, Julian.”
His eyes lifted.
“You were gone.”
That was the difference.
He had not been trapped in Canada.
He had not been stranded by work.
He had not been unreachable because of business complications.
He had chosen another life.
A younger woman.
A new child.
Luxury hotels.
Expensive watches.
Five designer suitcases.
And while he lived as if his mother did not exist, I sat beside her hospital bed, held her hand through dialysis, paid medical bills he ignored, and listened as she slowly realized the son she had defended all her life was never coming home.
Chloe shifted uncomfortably.
“Julian,” she said quietly, “you told me you were separated.”
He did not answer.
“You told me Elena was just living here because your mother needed help.”
Still, he said nothing.
I looked at her.
“He told me he was in Canada on a corporate assignment.”
Chloe’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
For the first time, the confidence in her face disappeared.
She looked down at the baby.
“What did you do?” she whispered to Julian.
He stood slowly, anger beginning to replace grief.
“You had no right to keep this from me.”
I almost smiled.
“No right?”
“That was my mother.”
“Yes,” I said. “And for three years, she was my responsibility.”
“She was my family.”
“She was your family when you wanted the house.”
Julian’s eyes flashed.
“What does that mean?”
I reached into the clear document sleeve I had carried from the airport.
Then I placed three papers beside Eleanor’s photograph.
The first was the death certificate.
The second was the memorial notice.
The third was a legal document bearing Eleanor Vance’s signature.
Julian stared at it.
“What is this?”
“A copy of your mother’s will.”
His face changed.
Chloe stepped closer despite herself.
Julian picked up the document with trembling hands.
Then he read the first paragraph.
May you like
And suddenly, the man who had walked into JFK Airport smiling with his mistress and newborn son no longer looked powerful.
He looked terrified.
