Poor Son-in-law

3

The door creaked open as Marcus stepped into the house that no longer felt like home. The weight of the evening clung to his shoulders, heavier than the coat he had draped over his arm. The faint scent of Evelyn’s expensive perfume lingered in the air, a sharp reminder of the life he was about to leave behind. The living room was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls, but the silence was deafening.

He exhaled slowly, taking in the surroundings. The place was spotless, as always, every cushion perfectly arranged, every trinket in its place. Evelyn had always been meticulous about appearances. But to Marcus, it all felt hollow now.

He walked toward the staircase, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and paused at the base. For the first time in years, he felt like a stranger in his own house. The memories came flooding back—laughter, arguments, stolen moments of tenderness—but those felt like they belonged to someone else, someone he no longer recognized.

He clenched his jaw and headed upstairs.

The bedroom was exactly as he had left it that morning. The bed was neatly made, Evelyn’s side untouched. He pulled a suitcase from the closet and placed it on the bed, the zipper’s sharp sound breaking the silence. One by one, he began packing his belongings: shirts, trousers, books he couldn’t bear to leave behind. It was methodical, almost robotic. He didn’t allow himself to feel. Not yet.

As he reached for a framed photo of his parents on the bedside table, a voice broke the quiet.

“Well, look who’s finally leaving,” came the mocking tone.

Marcus turned to see Evelyn’s younger brother, Andrew, leaning casually against the doorway. His smirk was infuriating, his arms crossed as if he were enjoying every second of Marcus’s humiliation.

“I’m not in the mood, Andrew,” Marcus said evenly, his voice calm but laced with warning.

Andrew chuckled, stepping into the room. “Oh, come on, Marcus. Don’t act all high and mighty. You lost. Evelyn’s moving on, and you’re—what? Packing your little suitcase? Running back to wherever it is you came from?”

Marcus tightened his grip on the photo frame but didn’t respond. Andrew thrived on provocation, and Marcus wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Andrew’s eyes landed on the photo in Marcus’s hand. “Aw, is that Mommy and Daddy?” he sneered, taking a step closer. “Still clinging to the past, huh? No wonder Evelyn got bored of you.”

“Enough.” Marcus’s voice was sharp now, his patience wearing thin. He carefully placed the photo into the suitcase and turned back to his task.

But Andrew wasn’t done. He reached into the suitcase, pulling out the photo. “You know, you really should let go of this sentimental crap. It’s pathetic.”

“Put it down.” Marcus’s tone was low, dangerous.

Andrew grinned, holding the frame up as if inspecting it. “What’s so special about this anyway? They’re gone, Marcus. Dead. Just like your marriage.”

Before Marcus could react, Andrew hurled the photo to the ground. The glass shattered, fragments scattering across the floor. Marcus froze, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the broken frame.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Marcus slowly turned to face Andrew, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“Get out,” Marcus said quietly, his voice steady but packed with restrained fury.

Andrew smirked, clearly unfazed. “Whatever. You’re not worth the effort anyway.” He turned and sauntered out of the room, leaving Marcus standing amidst the broken glass.

Marcus knelt down, carefully picking up the pieces of the shattered frame. His hands trembled slightly as he retrieved the photo, now creased and smudged. It was the last picture ever taken of his parents, a memory he had clung to for years. A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down, refusing to let the emotions take over.

He placed the damaged photo carefully into his suitcase and zipped it closed. This was it. There was nothing left for him here.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was no better. Evelyn sat on the pristine white couch, her posture perfect, as if she were posing for a magazine shoot. Her mother, Margaret, stood nearby, sipping a glass of red wine. Both women looked up as Marcus entered the room, his suitcase in hand.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Margaret said, her tone dripping with disdain. “I suppose you’ll be leaving without making a scene. How very unlike you.”

Marcus ignored her and turned to Evelyn. “The papers,” he said simply.

Evelyn reached over to the coffee table and picked up a sleek black folder. She held it out to him, her expression unreadable. “Everything’s there. Just sign, and this will all be over.”

Marcus took the folder, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. She looked stunning, as always, but there was a coldness in her eyes that he no longer recognized. The woman he had fallen in love with was gone, replaced by someone he couldn’t reach.

He opened the folder and scanned the documents. Everything was as expected—terms dictated entirely by her and her family. He had no claim to the house, the car, or any of the assets they had accumulated together. But Marcus didn’t care. He didn’t want any of it.

Without a word, he picked up the pen and signed his name at the bottom of the page. The finality of the act hit him like a punch to the gut, but he kept his expression neutral.

Margaret watched him with a smug smile. “Smart choice,” she said. “At least you’re leaving with some dignity. Not that you had much to begin with.”

Marcus set the pen down and closed the folder. He looked at Evelyn one last time, searching for any sign of the woman he had once known. But there was nothing. Just silence.

“Goodbye, Evelyn,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond.

As Marcus stepped out into the night, the cold air hit him like a slap. He stood on the front steps for a moment, inhaling deeply. The weight on his chest felt unbearable, but there was a flicker of something else—a spark, a determination he hadn’t felt in years.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he hadn’t called in a long time. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Marcus,” came the deep, steady voice of his uncle, Richard Carter.

“Uncle,” Marcus said, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I need your help.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Richard’s voice came through, calm and reassuring. “Tell me everything.”

Marcus glanced back at the house one last time before walking down the driveway. The shadows swallowed him as he disappeared into the night, his resolve hardening with each step.