Ghosts and Cruelty: A Mother’s Lament

People started gathering, whispering about the body on the sidewalk. The mistress, Marissa Grant, looked panicked as she hid in Carter’s arms, crying, but I still caught the flash of a smile in her eyes. That little glint—like she’d finally won.

Someone called 911, but it wasn’t Carter. He was too busy shielding Marissa, not even glancing at my ruined body. My heart twisted, watching him stroke her hair, murmuring soft reassurances.

"Don’t worry, it’s okay. Our baby wasn’t scared, right?" He gently stroked Marissa’s belly. His face was all tenderness—like nothing else mattered. The words hit me like a slap. The same hands that once caressed my hair now comforted the woman who destroyed our family.

Marissa, tears still glistening, clung tightly to Carter’s hand. "Why did she do this?" Her voice was small, trembling, but her eyes were dry as dust.

That fake innocent act made my blood boil. I lunged at her, swung at her face, screaming, "You really don’t know why? If you hadn’t wrecked my family, would I be here? Still pretending you’re the victim? I’ll rip that mask off!" My hands swung through her like smoke. I screamed until my voice was hoarse, but the only answer was the winter wind.

I kicked and hit at them, but I was nothing but air. I tried and tried—God, I was so frustrated I could scream. After exhausting myself, they didn’t feel a thing—they couldn’t even sense me. My fists passed through Carter’s broad back. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shiver, didn’t even seem to feel the chill.

Carter looked at my body with disgust, not willing to waste a single word on me. His eyes were hard, jaw clenched, as if I was just a problem to be cleaned up, not a person he’d once loved.

I stared at the man who once promised to protect me for life, who used to be so gentle and attentive, but now wouldn’t even protect my last shred of dignity. In the end, it was the heavyset guy from 3B—always saw him in the elevator—who took off his flannel shirt and covered my disfigured face. He muttered a soft, "God rest her soul," and I could’ve kissed his callused hands for that small mercy.

If I’d held onto any hope for Carter before, it died completely right then. A piece of me broke, and there was no putting it back together.

I hated him so much my nails dug into my palms. I thought ending my life would punish him, but all it did was show me how little I meant to him. Colder than the Chicago wind. And that’s saying something.

The police arrived. After getting the details, they took the two of them to the station. Blue and red lights flashed on the glass tower, a surreal parade for my last act.

I drifted along to the police station, sitting across from them, listening to Carter—with red eyes, pulling his own hair—tell the officers in a broken voice, "That was my ex-wife. She had bipolar disorder and depression. We never got along, and had been talking about divorce for a long time, but she kept pestering me and refused to sign. She used suicide to guilt-trip me, and even harassed my friends. I thought she’d eventually understand you can’t force love, but I never thought she’d end things like this."

He sounded so sincere. So full of regret. If I hadn’t just seen his true face, if I hadn’t lived through that forced divorce, I might have believed this "affectionate and righteous" man. He was a master at playing the victim, painting himself as the wronged party.

He called the mistress a "friend," blamed their shameless affair for my mental breakdown, and finally pinned all the blame on me for refusing to divorce and being too extreme. The words twisted in my gut, each one a lie dressed up as concern.

All those years—I must have been blind to love this man so completely. I felt like I was watching a stranger in Carter’s skin.

I didn’t know people well, and I deserved this end. I thought this was already the worst humiliation, but it was only the beginning. The pain had layers—like peeling an onion. And I was just getting started.

---

Marissa quickly moved into my place. The kind of place where every square foot cost a fortune and the lobby always smelled like fresh flowers. The 7,000-square-foot duplex penthouse was my home. My name was still on the mailbox, but that didn’t matter anymore.

Of course, I didn’t just own this place, but this neighborhood was next to the best private kindergarten and elementary school in the city. All the wealthy bought homes here for their kids’ education. The playground was full of nannies in designer sunglasses. Parents in suits and yoga pants. Everyone pretending not to notice the gossip.

Even though there’d been a suicide, it didn’t affect property values—too many important people lived here, and the incident was quickly swept under the rug. The doormen whispered, but the realtors just upped the price for the next buyer.

Marissa knew I’d died here, yet still moved in. She’d wanted to be somebody for too long. I watched her walk through the front door like she was walking onto a stage, chin high, eyes glittering.