The Eve of A Broken Family1

Adelaide Trevelyan, my mother-in-law, was in the final stages of cancer, experiencing a brief period of lucidity. She wanted to take a family portrait with me and her daughter, Yedda Hewlett.

I had arranged for a photographer and picked out our outfits—everything was set. But as soon as Yedda received a phone call, she hurriedly left.

We waited until dusk, with Adelaide holding on by sheer will.

Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked me, "Is she back? Has Yedda come back?"

As I made the thirty-third call to Yedda, Adelaide could hold on no longer and quietly passed away.

At that very moment, Yedda's male best friend posted a photo of the two of them on Instagram with a caption: [It's great to have someone take care of you when you're drunk.]

After the funeral, I was overwhelmed with despair and dialed Yedda's number once more.

Before I could say anything, she answered, irritated. "How many times are you going to nag? I'm just changing clothes. I'll be there soon. Just wait there with my mom."

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The thought of Adelaide passing without fulfilling her last wish felt like a stab to my heart.

I had intended to tell Yedda that her beloved mother was gone, but hearing her tone, I realized it no longer mattered.

"Yedda, forget the photo. Let's get a divorce."

Saying those words brought a sense of relief.

I never imagined I would be the one to walk away.

But the feeling of utter desolation made it impossible to forgive her as I once had.

After handling Adelaide's affairs, I wiped away my tears and headed to the photography studio.

The young woman at the front desk informed me that the photographer would be late and suggested I wait.

She was carrying a pizza to the meeting room and kindly offered. "Would you like to join me?"

I shook my head.

I didn't want to eat pizza ever again.

I was an orphan, and no one had ever made pizza just for me.

That changed when I visited Yedda's family. Adelaide had pushed a large pizza toward me, urging me to eat more.

She knew I had a rough upbringing and treated me like a son.

She'd said, "If you ever want more, just ask—I'll make them for you anytime."

Adelaide wasn't just my mother-in-law; she was like a real mother to me.

Now that she was gone, the family felt broken beyond repair.

The thought brought tears to my eyes.

I rubbed my eyes and suddenly heard laughter coming from the door.