(From Ashes to Hope) Chapter 3
The crimson stain spread across the ground, a macabre flower testament to
the violence of the kidnapping
Mrs. Miller’s face was pale with shock.
While waiting for the ambulance, she held my mother’s hand tightly, talking
to her non–stop, begging her to hold on.
My mother’s breathing grew weaker, she knew her end was near.
Her last thoughts were of me, her only daughter.
She knew of my affection for John, and with her last breath, she made a final
request to Mrs. Miller.
This request, carrying my mother’s deep love, transcended the boundary
between life and death, echoing through time.
Mrs. Miller’s face was etched with complex emotions as she heard my
mother’s plea.
Her gaze shifted between my mother’s pale face and her own inner turmoil.
Her brow furrowed, as if her thoughts were shrouded in mist
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She knew of John’s deep affection for his girlfriend, and although she didn’t
approve of the girl, she didn’t want to be the villain.
Mrs. Miller lowered her head, silent for a moment, weighing her options.
Seconds later, she made up her mind and slowly raised her head.
Her voice trembled as she promised to ensure her son would marry me.
Hearing this, a peaceful expression washed over my mother’s pained face.
A faint smile touched her lips, a smile of blessing and hope.
Her eyes slowly closed, her face serene, leaving this world with her heart full
of love and concern.
In the days following my mother’s funeral, people offered their condolences
They said that although I had lost my mother, I had gained a life of wealth
and comfort, as if it was a fair trade.
But they didn’t understand that I would rather live a solitary life than lose
my beloved mother.
My father passed away early, and my mother raised me single–handedly,
enduring hardship and sacrifice. We were each other’s everything, she meant
more to me than anything in the world.
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On the day I married John, Mrs. Miller held my hand, tears streaming down
her face.
She choked back sobs, “Your mother can finally rest in peace…”
I stood there, my eyes hollow, my face pale as a sheet, like a lifeless puppet.
But remembering my mother’s hopeful gaze and her last wish, I slowly lifted
my head, my eyes filled with determination, and nodded.
John was always a gentleman in public. His smile, his manners, were
impeccable, the epitome of a perfect gentleman.
At our grand wedding, surrounded by dazzling lights and melodious music, I was lulled into a false sense of happiness as I looked at him in his immaculate
suit.
People around us cast envious glances, and I naively believed I had found a
safe haven, a place to spend the rest of my life in peace.
However, after the boisterous celebration, in the quiet solitude of our own
space, the atmosphere turned icy cold.
John slowly approached me, his breath close, yet carrying a chilling coldness.
He whispered in my ear, “You traded your mother’s life for this wedding, are
you happy now?”
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His words were like sharp icicles, piercing my heart.
Mend
He continued, “I don’t love you, but I’ll honor my mother’s with and plays
role with you. In this play, I’m your husband, but off stage, my hear betongs
someone else.”
His words were like hammer blows, shattering the fragile hope that ladjo
ignited in my heart, leaving only ashes.
In the days that followed, he did as he said, maintaining the facade of a
loving husband in public.
At every family gathering, every social event, he would gently take my hand
his actions natural and effortless, as if we were truly a loving couple.
He was attentive and caring, giving me the respect I deserved as his wife,
making others envious.
But for me, this seemingly perfect yet empty marriage didn’t matter.
Because in my heart, there were things far more important than this false
relationship.
There was the deep longing for my mother, a longing that washed oxshas
like waves. There were the cherished memories of the past, the times spent
with my mother, unfolding like precious paintings in my
mind.
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His words were like sharp icicles, piercing my heart.
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He continued, “I don’t love you, but I’ll honor my mother’s wish and play this
role with you. In this play, I’m your husband, but off stage, my heart belongs to
someone else.”
His words were like hammer blows, shattering the fragile hope that had just
ignited in my heart, leaving only ashes.
In the days that followed, he did as he said, maintaining the facade of a
loving husband in public.
At every family gathering, every social event, he would gently take my hand,
his actions natural and effortless, as if we were truly a loving couple.
He was attentive and caring, giving me the respect I deserved as his wife,
making others envious.
But for me, this seemingly perfect yet empty marriage didn’t matter.
Because in my heart, there were things far more important than this false
relationship.
There was the deep longing for my mother, a longing that washed over me
like waves. There were the cherished memories of the
with
past,
the times I spent
my mother, unfolding like precious paintings in
my
mind.
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I thought life would continue in this monotonous way.
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But an unexpected event, like a boulder thrown into a river, changed the
course of our lives.
One day, John came home drunk.
He stumbled through the door, reeking of alcohol.
His eyes were bloodshot, his steps unsteady, like a lost soul wandering in the
darkness.
He mumbled incoherently, swaying as he moved around the room.
I heard the commotion and came out of my room. When he saw me, his eyes,
clouded by alcohol, became hazy and intense. He mistook me for the woman
who occupied his thoughts.
He lurched towards me, calling out her name, his voice filled with longing
and urgency.
His hands grabbed my arms like iron clamps, his grip surprisingly strong, as
if he wanted to meld me into his body.
I struggled desperately, trying to break free, but he had lost all reason,
dragging me onto the bed.
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That night was an unspeakable nightmare for me.
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In the darkness, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear and helplessness, as if I
had been swept into a terrifying storm.
The next morning, when he woke up and saw me lying beside him, his eyes
instantly turned cold and filled with disgust. His gaze was like a sharp blade,
piercing my heart.
He sat up abruptly and started yelling.
He accused me of being shameless, convinced that I had taken advantage of
his drunken state and deliberately crawled into his bed.
I felt both wronged and furious, my body trembling with emotion. I pointed
at the clothes he had ripped the night before, the tears in the fabric mirroring the
wounds in my heart, silently speaking of the injustice I had suffered.
Tears streamed down my face as I recounted his violent actions.
His face registered disbelief as he listened to my accusations. He stared at me
blankly, as if trying to piece together the events of the previous night.
When he realized it was all his fault, remorse washed over him.
His face paled, his eyes filled with pain and self–reproach.
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He clutched his head, pulling at his hair, as if that could somehow alleviate
his inner turmoil.
He couldn’t meet my gaze, knowing he had caused me immense pain.
From that day on, he seemed unable to face his actions, or me.
He chose to escape, his once familiar figure no longer willing to return to the
place we once shared, as if it was a place he feared.
I hadn’t yet recovered from the trauma of that night, physically and
emotionally exhausted, when I discovered I was pregnant.
