My daughter-in-law didn’t show up at my son’s funeral. Hours later, she posted a picture of herself drinking in Cancun with the gardener. The caption said, «Enjoy life while you can.» That’s when I received a message from my son and froze. «Dad, come to my house now.» Subscribe to the channel for more stories like this and comment on the city you’re watching from. I never thought I’d bury my son alone.
Standing in that funeral home on a gray Tuesday morning, watching the handful of people who came to pay their respects to Richard, I kept glancing toward the entrance, waiting, hoping. Maybe traffic was bad. Maybe her flight was delayed. Maybe there was some reasonable explanation for why Olivia, my daughter-in-law of eight years, wasn’t here to mourn her husband.
The funeral director approached me with that practiced sympathy they all master. «Mr. Morrison, should we wait a few more minutes?»
I cleared my throat, trying to maintain whatever dignity I had left. «No, let’s begin.»
Thirty-seven people came to say goodbye to my son. I counted them. Thirty-seven people who cared enough to take time from their Wednesday to honor Richard’s memory. His wife wasn’t one of them.
I delivered the eulogy myself. What else could I do? I talked about Richard’s childhood, his love for baseball, and how he’d graduated summa cum laude from Northwestern. I spoke of how proud I was when he started his own consulting firm.
I didn’t mention how he’d struggled with anxiety in recent years, or how distant he’d become from everyone, including me. I didn’t mention how his marriage seemed to be falling apart, though I’d pretended not to notice. As people filed past the casket, offering their condolences, I heard the whispers.
«Where’s Olivia?»
«Isn’t that his wife?»
«How awful for her to miss this.»
The sympathy in their voices made my chest tighten. If only they knew. After the service, I drove to the cemetery alone. The hearse followed behind me, carrying my son’s body.
I should have been focusing on Richard, on saying goodbye, on grieving properly. Instead, my mind kept circling back to one question: where the hell was she?
Back at home that evening, I sat in my kitchen staring at my phone. I’d called Olivia six times, and each call went straight to voicemail. I’d sent text messages, but there was no response.
Richard’s death had been sudden. A heart attack at thirty-four, they said, stress-related. I’d called Olivia immediately after the hospital pronounced him dead, and she’d seemed appropriately shocked, appropriately devastated. She’d cried on the phone, asked about arrangements, and promised to fly back from her sister’s house in Phoenix, where she’d been visiting. That was four days ago.
I opened my laptop and did something I’d never done before: I checked social media. Richard had always been private about his personal life, and I’d never been one for Facebook or Instagram. But grief makes you do strange things.
I found Olivia’s Instagram account easily enough. Her profile picture was still of her and Richard from their anniversary dinner last year, both smiling, his arm around her shoulders. She looked radiant in that photo: blonde hair, perfectly styled, green eyes bright with happiness. Or what I’d thought was happiness.
I scrolled down through her recent posts, my heart pounding for reasons I couldn’t yet name. There were photos from Phoenix, dinners with her sister, and shopping trips, all posted after Richard’s death, all showing a woman who looked anything but grief-stricken. Then I found it.
Posted three hours ago, while I was delivering my son’s eulogy, was a photo that made my blood turn to ice. Olivia, in a bright red bikini with a cocktail in hand, was standing on a beach with crystal blue water behind her. She was laughing, her head thrown back, completely carefree. Next to her stood a man I recognized—Miguel, the gardener who’d been working on their landscaping for months. His arm was around her waist, and they were both grinning at the camera.
The location tag read Cancun, Mexico. The caption made my hands shake. «Life’s too short not to live it. Cheers to new beginnings.»
I stared at that photo for twenty minutes, reading and re-reading those words. While I stood over my son’s grave, throwing dirt on his coffin, his wife was toasting new beginnings in Mexico with another man. The comments were even worse. Friends were congratulating her on the trip, asking if she was finally happy, telling her she deserved this.
One comment from her sister made my stomach turn. «So glad you’re done with all that drama. Miguel is perfect for you.»
Done with all that drama. My son’s death was «drama» to be done with. I closed the laptop and walked to the liquor cabinet, something I rarely did. I poured three fingers of whiskey and sat back down, trying to process what I’d seen.
Eight years of marriage, eight years of family dinners, holidays, and birthdays. I’d watched Olivia become part of our family and had grown to care for her like a daughter. I’d even defended her to Richard when their fights got bad, telling him that marriage required patience and understanding. What a fool I’d been.
My phone buzzed. It was a text message from an unknown number, but somehow I knew exactly who it was before I even looked. «Dad, come to my house now. We need to talk. Don’t tell anyone. Richard.»
I dropped the phone. It clattered on the kitchen floor, the screen cracking, but I barely noticed. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely pick it up again. I read the message three times, then four, then five.
