Chapter 4: The Confrontation Everyone Saw Coming

3

After packing my luggage, I carried my daughter over to the house next door.

The grass was still wet with dew, and the morning sun glinted off the mailbox. My daughter clung to my side, quiet for once, sensing something was different. I steeled myself and rang the bell.

As soon as I entered Melissa’s home, I smelled the aroma of roast chicken.

It hit me like a punch—the rich, savory smell of meat roasting in the oven, something my own kitchen hadn’t seen in weeks. I took a deep breath, feeling my stomach clench.

A widow, with neither a job nor income, could often afford to eat meat and buy new clothes. Of course, this was all thanks to my good husband.

It was common knowledge in our town—everyone whispered about how Melissa always had the latest dress from Macy’s and her fridge was always full. I’d spent too many nights listening to those whispers, pretending I didn’t care.

In my previous life, I always thought what Charles owed his brother was also what I owed his brother.

I convinced myself that it was noble, that sacrifice was what made me a good person. But all it did was make me a doormat, someone who let other people write the story of her life.

So even though I was uncomfortable with Charles repeatedly sending our family’s money to Melissa, I never made a fuss.

I told myself it was temporary, that things would balance out, but they never did. The scales always tipped in her favor.

But in return, I lived in poverty all my life, while she enjoyed all the blessings with my man.

Even now, standing in her bright, warm kitchen, I could feel the sting of that injustice. She laughed easily, her cheeks flushed, while I carried worry like a badge.

I carried my daughter out and saw Melissa chatting with several neighbors at the street corner.

The neighborhood was alive with morning chatter. Mr. Jenkins was mowing his lawn, and the Perkins twins raced past on their scooters. Melissa was holding court by the mailbox, the queen bee surrounded by her loyal drones.

Melissa wore a brand new blue blouse, black slacks, and a black bow in her hair.

Her outfit looked like something out of a Lands’ End catalog, pressed and perfect. Even her shoes gleamed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought myself anything new.

Anyone who didn’t know better would think she was a teacher at the local elementary school.

She had that crisp, put-together look, the kind that made people trust her right away. It was all smoke and mirrors.

Seeing me carrying my daughter over, Melissa paused before greeting me, "Helen."

Her voice was as sugary as ever, but there was an edge behind it. She knew this wasn’t a social call.

In my previous life, at first I was uncomfortable with her and didn’t want to talk to her.

I’d try to slip past unnoticed, avoiding the awkward conversations and forced smiles. I’d hoped if I kept my distance, things would get better. They never did.

Later, I hated her.

Hating her was like letting poison ivy crawl up my arms—painful, but I couldn’t stop.

Melissa probably sensed how I felt, so although we lived next door, we rarely met.

We avoided each other like rival cats on the same block, circling but never quite coming to blows—until now.

I looked Melissa up and down, saying nothing.

The silence was thick, and for once, Melissa looked unsure. The neighbors leaned in, waiting for drama.

Now, even the neighbor ladies were curious.

Mrs. Green peeked over her fence, and I spotted the mailman pausing at the end of the street, his eyes darting between us. You could almost hear the gossip spreading already.

"Helen, what’s going on?"

Mrs. Green, never one to miss a bit of excitement, called out, her voice carrying across the yard. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me.

"Yeah, why are you looking at Melissa like that?"

The Perkins twins’ mom chimed in, curiosity laced with concern. Melissa fidgeted, her confident posture slipping just a bit.

I pressed my lips together and finally looked at Melissa.

I let the silence hang, then spoke, my voice steady. It was time someone said it out loud.

"Did Charles send you food stamps and grocery vouchers again?"

The words cut through the morning calm. Melissa’s face paled, and the neighbors turned to stare. Somebody’s dog barked in the distance, but nobody moved. In a town like this, drama was as rare as a solar eclipse.

As soon as I asked, Melissa’s expression changed.

She looked like she’d been caught stealing from the offering plate at church. Her hands fluttered to her necklace, her gaze darting everywhere but at me.

"H-Helen…"

Her voice trembled, the first crack in her perfect facade. She glanced at the neighbors, then back at me, her cheeks reddening.

Several neighbors looked at me in surprise, then at Melissa.

Whispers started up, low and urgent, as the truth began to surface. You could almost feel the shift in the air.

I said coldly, "My kids haven’t had a bite of meat in two months. I just smelled you cooking chicken. Did Charles send you food stamps and vouchers again?"

I didn’t raise my voice, but the words hung heavy between us. I could see Mrs. Green’s eyes widen, the Perkins twins’ mom clutching her coffee cup a little tighter.

My words made Melissa instantly panic.

She stepped back, hands shaking. The mask was slipping, and everyone could see it.

"No, no, I, I… I borrowed it from someone…"

Her excuses were flimsy, and we all knew it. Nobody in town was that generous, not without expecting something in return.

I looked at her and scoffed, "But someone saw Charles’s letter to you."

I let the words settle, enjoying the way her confidence crumbled. The neighbors exchanged glances, curiosity turning into suspicion.

After I said that, I paused. "Two letters every month."

That was the final nail in the coffin. Melissa’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The neighbor ladies’ faces changed, realization dawning.

Actually, I only learned much later that Charles did send me food stamps and grocery vouchers, even meat vouchers.

The truth always finds a way out, no matter how deep you try to bury it. I’d spent years thinking it was my fault, that I wasn’t good enough. But it was all a lie.

But he thought if he sent them to me directly, Melissa, as the younger sister-in-law, would be embarrassed to ask me for them.

That twisted logic—always looking out for her feelings, never mine. He’d rather see his own wife struggle than let Melissa feel even a moment of discomfort.

So he sent the food and grocery vouchers to Melissa first, then had her bring them to me.

A system built on secrets and half-truths, all designed to keep me in the dark.

But she never brought them over.

Every month, I’d wonder if I’d misplaced something, or if the mail was slow. But the truth was always next door, locked behind Melissa’s door.

Her husband had been dead for three years.

Three years is a long time to play the grieving widow. It gave her cover to take everything that wasn’t nailed down, all with Charles’s blessing.

For these three years, Charles sent money and all kinds of vouchers to her every month.

Neighbors started to talk, but Charles always brushed it off. He said it was the right thing to do, the Christian thing. But charity starts at home, or so I’d always believed.

But as the legitimate wife, I didn’t get a penny.

I was the one who signed the marriage license, who bore his children, but in the end, I was the afterthought.