A Life Ransomed in Lies

Joe coaxed me softly over the phone.

"All right, all right. We've been apart for so many years. Let's have a family reunion dinner with our son."

I muttered a casual reply and hung up.

On the bus, my phone kept pinging. It was Joe sending photos of a restaurant.

The dishes in the pictures were beyond anything my son and I could have imagined. Normally, a simple plate of pickles would make him hum with happiness. He had never known a day of indulgence in his life.

I had once believed that if I just worked hard enough, earned enough money, I could ransom Joe and provide a shield over my son and me. But all along, it had been a lie. My years of toil were nothing but a cruel joke.

Tears fell onto the ashes, and only then did I realize my face was already soaked. I turned off the screen, wiped my tears, and closed my eyes tightly.

'Joe… I'm done playing along with your lies.'

…

That night, I didn't return home. I took my son's ashes to the seaside.

He loved the ocean. We had once promised each other that when his father returned and I no longer had to work myself to exhaustion, we would come here often.

The next morning, my phone lit up with dozens of missed calls and messages from Joe.

I didn't answer. I didn't read them.

Instead, I went to the small shop where I had worked part-time and resigned from every job, one by one. Without realizing it, I had visited over ten places.

Once all the resignations were done, I took my son's ashes and rode the bus back to our rental.

He didn't belong here. I had to lay him to rest in our hometown.

When I got home, Joe sat alone on a stool, the air around him heavy. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night.

I had imagined countless times what it would feel like to see him again. Would I be excited? Overwhelmed? Would I throw myself into his arms and cry?

But now, there were no such emotions. Only hatred. My heart felt like still water.

He, however, was different. He turned and glared at me.

"Where did you go? Why was your phone off? Why didn't you come home all night? Why didn't you answer me?"

His questions carried the sting of grievance, of complaint.

I glanced at him. He was deliberately dressed poorly. But no shabby shirt could erase the years of wealth, the air of nobility that clung to him. In this broken rental, he looked out of place. Next to me—a woman whose face bore the marks of hardship—we were worlds apart.

I didn't want to get entangled. I muttered that I was working a night shift.

But as I turned, he rushed forward and pressed me against the wall. His eyes were red at the corners.

"Sandra! After all these years, you don't miss me? Is this how you greet me?"

I buried my face deep, refusing to let him see my tears.

He continued, "But I've missed you so much!"

The words pierced my chest like a sword. Tears finally fell, uncontrolled, like pearls spilling from a broken string.

Missed me? And for that, you could trick me like a fool, disappear for five years, watch my son and me suffer without lifting a finger?

I laughed bitterly. Perhaps his words were just another tease, treating me like a fool.

I lowered my head and pushed him away.

"I'm tired. I want to sleep."

He watched my retreating back, one hand on his hip, an unexplainable irritation stirring in him.

When I woke, it was evening. I stared blankly out the window. How many years had passed since I could lie down without worry? I couldn't remember. All I knew was that for as long as I could recall, waking up meant going straight to work, never allowing myself a single pause.

The old door suddenly swung open.

Joe handed me a dress.

"Sandra, put this on. We'll pick up our son and go eat together."

Pick up our son? From where?

Before I could respond, he pressed on, urging me without pause.