Six weeks ago, my mom passed away. I don’t think anything prepares you for that moment. I buried her, packed away her clothes while sobbing into them, and sat in her empty room just breathing in what was left of her scent.
Those weeks felt like walking through a dark tunnel with no end in sight. And through it all, Evan stayed in touch, telling me he was grieving in his own way, keeping the house running so I wouldn’t come home to chaos.
Finally, after I wrapped up her estate and closed up the house, I drove back. I thought stepping into our place would feel like relief. I imagined leaning against Evan, crying into his chest, and finally letting someone else hold me up after months of carrying everything alone.
Instead, the second I opened the door, I froze. The smell hit me first. It was sour, like stale beer and sweat mixed with grease. My stomach turned as I stepped inside.
The living room was a wreck; pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, dirty cups everywhere, dust thick enough on the TV stand to write in, and a dark stain on the rug I had picked out with such care last year.
“Evan?” I called, my voice cracking. I opened my mouth to speak, but then I noticed something that made my stomach drop. He wasn’t alone.
I stepped into the living room and saw two men on our couch, drinks in hand, music shaking the picture frames. Evan stood in the middle of it all, shirtless, a beer lifted like a trophy. He looked less like my husband and more like someone I would have avoided in college.
One of the guys, a tall man with blonde hair and a watch that flashed in the light, noticed me first. He elbowed the other. “Uh, dude,” he muttered. “Company.”
Evan spun around, startled, then tried on a grin. “Babe! You’re early!” I set my suitcase down. “Early? I buried my mother.”
The taller man cleared his throat. “We should go,” he said, suddenly sober. Evan waved him off. “No, no, it’s fine. Stella, this is Mike, and that’s Jason. They’re my new colleagues. We’ve been, you know, blowing off steam. Work contacts. Networking.”
I looked around the room. Empty bottles lined the windowsill. A plate with congealed cheese sat on the coffee table. There was a smear of something red on the wall by the thermostat. I fought the urge to gag.
Jason stood, pulling on his jacket. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “We didn’t know you were coming home today.” Mike lifted his hands like he wanted to help, then thought better of it. “Yeah, uh, condolences,” he added. “We’ll, uh, get out of your hair.”
“Please do,” I said.
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