The woman they tried to bury

John had made it clear that I shouldn’t bother trying to impress his mother. It’s useless, Liv, he’d said more than once. But still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to. In three years of marriage, I had only seen her once—not on our wedding day, she managed to come up with the most ridiculous excuse to miss the wedding, but the day John introduced me to his parents, was the first and only time I had seen her or better still, she had let me see her. And that was exactly the genesis of her hatred for me. Yet, a part of me wanted this time to be different. As I silently rehearsed what I might say, how I could finally leave a better impression, doubt gnawed at me.

The car slowed to a stop in the driveway. John stepped out first, then quickly moved to my side, opening the door and extending his hand to help me out.

The staff wasted no time unloading our luggage from the trunk as we walked through the stone-paved walkway toward the house. John’s grip on my hand tightened—a silent reassurance. It’s going to be okay.

Inside, the house was filled with people. A sea of black attire, murmured condolences, and solemn faces. They had all come to pay their respects.

And then, in the midst of the crowd, she stood.

Mrs. Luther.

Draped in an elegant black ensemble, her posture was graceful despite the slight tremble of her shoulders as she wept. Several guests surrounded her, whispering words of comfort.

Then, as if drawn by an unseen force, she lifted her head. Her eyes, red-rimmed and teary, locked onto mine.

And in that moment, her grief was momentarily replaced by something else—something sharper, colder.

John released my hand and stepped forward.

“Mom,” he said softly, opening his arms as he approached her.

I took a hesitant step forward, my hands trembling as I struggled to find the right words. Just as I opened my mouth to express my condolences, Mrs. Luther pulled away from John’s embrace and locked eyes with me.

With a cold, clipped voice, she said, “You had to bring her here?”

John sighed, his expression unreadable. “Mom, don’t start.”

“I mean, you should have left her at home. Or better yet, in the gutters where you picked her from.” Her voice was loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

John’s jaw clenched. “Mom, for Dad’s sake, don’t do this here. Please, stop talking to my wife like that.”

She rolled her eyes, exhaling dramatically as she turned to walk past us. I knew I shouldn’t say anything, but the words escaped before I could stop them.

“I’m really sorry for your loss, ma. Mr. Luther was a great man.”

She froze mid-step. Then, turning slowly, she gave me a long, deliberate once-over—from my head down to my toes. Her lip curled in disdain.

“You still aren’t pregnant?” She scoffed. “What a waste.”

Then, without another glance, she walked away.

I shut my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat as self-pity and sadness threatened to consume me.

John reached for me, his arms pulling me into an embrace, but I instinctively stepped back.

The air felt thick, suffocating. Even the death of her husband hadn’t softened her heart.

I couldn’t stay here any longer.

Without another word, I turned and walked outside, letting the cool evening air mix with the ache in my chest as I silently wallowed in sorrow.

Night had fallen, and the darkness deepened around me. I decided to head back inside before John started getting worried. There was no turning back now—I had signed up for this life. I could have said no, knowing fully well that his mother disapproved. But I said yes, despite the burden I knew I’d have to carry for the sake of love.

Still, Mrs. Luther should know better than to mock a woman for not having a child. We were trying, but it wasn’t happening yet. We believed that, in time, we would have our own baby. That would make John truly fulfilled. He loved kids—he was good with them. They latched onto him like magnets to candy. And even though he always told me not to worry, I knew—deep down—he longed to be a father.

As I walked along the path leading back to the house, I watched the last guests drift away into the evening light. The laughter had faded, the air now thick with silence.

Just as I approached the porch, a figure caught my attention—a woman, elegant yet unfamiliar, cradling a small boy who looked no older than five. They made their way up the steps and into the house like they belonged there.

Curiosity gripped me, quickly spiraling into dread.

Who is she? And… why does that boy look so much like—

Then John’s mother appeared at the doorway, her face lighting up with a warmth I hadn’t seen all day. She welcomed them in with open arms, her joy so genuine it sent a shiver through me.

I quickened my pace, breath shallow and uncertain, closing the distance with growing unease. Just as I reached for the door, my fingers brushing the handle, a voice from inside stopped me cold.

John’s voice—shaken, disbelieving.

“Tricia, I don’t understand. How is he my son? It’s been four, five years since we…”

Son?

My heart stalled.

Tricia’s voice followed, sharp and unapologetic.

“John, you really don’t want me to go into the details of the last time we—”

A violent twist churned in my stomach. Nausea surged like a tidal wave. My breath caught, eyes wide. My hand flew to my mouth to hold in the gasp clawing its way up.

Without thinking, I pushed the door open.

Every head in the room snapped toward me.