Ashes Under the Willow Tree

On the fourth day after my son died, I ran into Jennifer Cassell in a hospital corridor.

One hand steadied Phillip Lennox. The other held Phillip's son. The three of them looked exactly like a happy family. Except I was her husband.

The smile vanished from Jennifer's face the moment she saw me. "What are you doing here? Are you here to give Phil trouble again?"

She looked at me as if I were something she needed to guard against. Her eyes felt colder than my son's body.

Phillip slipped an arm around her with effortless familiarity. Then he looked at me with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, Andrew. Jenny just worries too much about me, so she came off a little harsh."

As he spoke, he nudged his son and motioned for him to greet me.

The boy glanced at me and said, "Hello, Mister."

Then he threw himself into Jennifer's arms and called out in a sweet voice, "Jenny."

One was "Mister," The other was "Jenny." The difference could not have been clearer.

In the past, this would have turned my stomach on the spot. Now I only felt bone-deep exhaustion.

I drew a slow breath and prepared to tell her that our son was dead.

Jennifer spoke first. "If you don't need anything, Phil and I are leaving. Tommy isn't feeling well. I need to take him to see a doctor."

My eyes shifted. Instinct made me step aside.

Phillip chuckled. "Jenny, don't work yourself up. Tommy just ate too much. He's fine."

"That's just how you are. You care too much."

Then he turned to me and added, generous as ever, "Andrew, if you need to talk to Jenny, go ahead. I can take Tommy to the doctor myself."

It was ridiculous. I was the man who had married Jennifer, yet I needed another man to grant me the chance to speak to my own wife.

What was even more ridiculous was that she still refused to give me even that much.

The moment Phillip finished speaking, she frowned. "Phil, don't say that. How can we not take a child's illness seriously?"

Yeah. How could we not?

I tightened my grip on the death certificate in my hand. Pain stabbed straight through my chest.

Four days earlier…

Our son's asthma flared, and he was on the verge of death.

I grabbed Jennifer just as she was heading out and begged her to take him to the hospital.

She only laughed coldly and shook off my hand. "Andrew, do you think I'm stupid? His asthma didn't start today. Give him some medicine and he'll be fine. Phil is waiting for me to take Tommy to the park. Stop bothering me."

Then she got into the car and drove away without a backward glance.

I was the only one left behind.

I ran through the entire compound in tears, begging anyone with a car to help me get my child to the hospital.

I was too late. The boy I had raised with everything I had for seven years left me forever, just before he was supposed to start school.

…

That day, I knelt in front of the doctors until my forehead went numb. I cried until there was nothing left in me.

None of it could buy me one more moment. None of it could make my son open his eyes and call me Dad again.

And his own mother? She had been at the park with her childhood sweetheart's son.

It might have been funny if it had not hollowed me out.

By the time I came back to myself, Jennifer was already gone. She walked away holding Phillip's son and left me no chance to speak.

Only Phillip looked back as he passed me. He gave me a small, apologetic smile. That expression and that small gesture looked almost like pity.

Over the last four days, I had seen far too much of that.