He married her two years later. They bought a sweet little three-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood near Columbus. Adam paid for most of it, but you’d never know that from the way Tara bragged.
“Finally,” she giggled during one family dinner, swirling wine in her glass, “we have a home that’s big enough for my standards.”
I said nothing, just passed the potatoes. Adam looked at her with stars in his eyes, like she’d hung the moon.
Then everything changed. Three years ago, my entire world shattered with a single phone call.
Adam had collapsed at work from a massive heart attack. Just like that, he was gone. He was only 41 years old.
I don’t remember the drive to the hospital. Just George’s hand in mine, and the sterile smell of the waiting room. I squeezed him so tight I left marks on his skin.
Tara showed up in designer sunglasses, carrying a handbag that practically screamed money. She cried in loud, dramatic sobs for the first ten minutes, then started scrolling through her phone like she was already over it.
At the funeral, while I stood in a daze by Adam’s casket, she leaned over to the funeral director and asked, “Are these the premium flowers or just the basic package?”
I felt George flinch beside me. He said nothing. We both knew grief made people act strangely. But this wasn’t grief. This was something else.
Two months later, George passed away as well. They said it was heart failure, but I knew better. He died of a broken heart. The light left his eyes the day we buried Adam.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
