My Mother's Ashes, My Fury Unleashed

Calista POV

The night passed in a blur of restless half-sleep, haunted by my mother' s fading whispers and Collin' s cruel laughter. When morning finally arrived, it offered no solace. My eyes felt gritty, my head heavy. I dragged myself out of bed, the hotel room feeling colder than ever.

Collin was already up, sitting by the window, engrossed in his phone. He scrolled through something, a faint smile playing on his lips. His morning routine hadn't changed, even with a mistress in the next room and a wife he despised in the same one.

"What are you looking at so intently?" I asked, my voice raspy. I didn't care, not really. Just going through the motions.

He barely glanced up. "Just some online shopping. Jaime mentioned she needed a new bag."

My gaze fell to his screen. A limited-edition leather tote, something I had admired online, even added to my own wish list a few months ago. He used my account, sometimes, when he was too lazy to log into his own. A faint, almost forgotten intimacy.

A pang, fleeting and unwelcome, shot through me. I pushed it down. That Calista, the one who cared about frivolous bags and Collin's fleeting affection, was long gone.

"Looks nice," I said, my voice flat.

He finally looked at me, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "You think so? Jaime's a bit picky, but I think she'll like it. It's trendy, new. Not like some of the… classic pieces you prefer." His tone was dismissive, a subtle jab at my taste, at me.

His phone wallpaper flashed. A photo of Jaime, pouting playfully, her hair dyed a shocking bubblegum pink. I remembered when he used to complain about my taste in art, calling it "too avant-garde." But he'd meticulously searched for a painting of a pink sunset for Jaime, something gaudy and saccharine, just because she'd once mentioned she liked the color. He' d even spent days crafting a ridiculous, glitter-covered card for her last birthday. He' d scoffed at the quiet, hand-stitched scarf I' d made him for his own, years ago.

"It suits her," I said, my voice empty.

He nodded, satisfied. He stood, walked over to me, and gave me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. His lips felt cold.

Just then, his phone buzzed. A bright, cheerful ringtone. Jaime's ringtone. He immediately picked up, his face softening, a genuine warmth radiating from him that I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

"Morning, angel," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. He moved away, stepping onto the small hotel balcony, his back to me. His words were hushed, meant only for her.

I walked into the kitchenette, setting about making coffee. He liked his black, strong. I preferred tea, my stomach unable to handle the bitterness. An old allergy, one he used to fuss over, making sure I always had my preferred chamomile blend.

He came back inside, frowning. "No coffee? What am I supposed to drink?"

"I don't drink coffee, Collin," I reminded him, my voice devoid of patience. "You know that. It makes my stomach ache."

He looked at me as if I'd just spoken in a foreign language. "Oh. Right." A moment of silence, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he shrugged. "I guess I'll just get one downstairs."

I remembered a time when he would meticulously brew pour-over coffee for me, explaining its delicate notes, making sure it cooled to the perfect temperature. He'd even researched my allergies, making a list of foods to avoid, a concerned frown always on his face. Now, I was just a vague inconvenience. It was strange, how easily he'd forgotten, and how easily I'd adapted to being forgotten.

He was about to leave when he hesitated, turning back to me. "I'm sorry, Calista. I... sometimes I forget." He sounded almost sincere. A rare, unsettling moment.

But before I could process it, his phone buzzed again. Jaime. He glanced at the screen, then back at me, that flicker of annoyance returning to his eyes. The moment was gone.

"I have to go," he said, the apology already forgotten. "Jaime needs me." With that, he was out the door. The clack of his expensive shoes echoed down the hallway.

I finished my tea alone, staring out at the grey city. The loneliness was no longer a sharp pain, just a dull ache, a constant companion.

A text message vibrated my phone. Collin. "Out with Jaime. Don't wait up."

I stared at the screen. He hadn't sent a "don't wait up" text in years. Not since the first few months of our marriage, before his late nights became the norm, before my pleas turned into silence. The last time he'd actively "reported" his whereabouts, I think, was three years ago, before his company really took off. A lifetime ago.

I didn't reply. There was nothing to say.

Later that afternoon, I left the hotel room, the key card heavy in my hand. I retrieved my mother's ashes from the funeral home. They were in a small, elegant urn, cool and smooth beneath my fingers. A wave of profound grief washed over me, a physical weight pressing down on my chest. I had planned to take her to London with me, to scatter her ashes in a field of wildflowers, just like she always wanted. A quiet, peaceful farewell.

As I stepped out of the funeral home, the city erupted in light. Fireworks. A burst of color against the twilight sky. A celebration. For what?

My phone buzzed. Social media. A photo from Jaime. She was smiling, radiant, standing next to Collin. He was holding a remote control, looking up at the sky. Above them, drones painted a giant, glittering heart in the air. Inside the heart, Jaime's face, meticulously recreated by tiny lights.

The caption read: "Early anniversary surprise! Collin is the best husband ever! So lucky to have him. #FirstAnniversary #LoveOfMyLife."

My vision blurred. First anniversary. It was our anniversary, our wedding anniversary. Not theirs. Not yet.

Another post. Collin, reposting Jaime's picture, adding his own caption: "To my one and only." He had pinned it to the top of his profile, right above a dusty, forgotten photo of our own wedding.

The comments flooded in. "So romantic!" "Jaime, you deserve this!" "Calista could never." "Poor Calista, looks like she's been replaced."

My stomach lurched. I gagged, leaning against a cold brick wall, bile rising in my throat. I remembered washing his clothes, scrubbing out wine stains from his expensive shirts, soaking his dirty socks when he was too tired. He had a meticulous obsession with cleanliness, a phobia of dirt. Yet, in Jaime's photo, he was laughing, his hands covered in paint, helping her create some childish art project. He never lifted a finger for me. He always said I was "too delicate" for such chores, but his eyes always held a hint of disgust.

A dull, throbbing pain started in my lower belly. It wasn't the kind of pain I normally felt. It was deeper, more insistent.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the intrusive images, the cruel words. The world spun. When I opened them again, I saw a familiar face rushing towards me. My housemaid. Maria. Her eyes wide with panic.

"Madam Calista!" she cried, rushing forward.

Before she could reach me, a searing pain erupted on my cheek. A sharp, stinging blow. The world tilted.