The Mortician's Revenge

My name is Nancy Lynn. I clutched the freshly signed corpse restoration contract, pressing my fingertip against the paper's edge until it wrinkled. Most people avoid this kind of work like the plague, but to me, it's lifesaving money — by day, I'm a clerk in an office building, barely earning enough to get by, and by night, I'm holed up in the funeral home's restoration room, slowly saving up to help my husband, Henry Shaw, pay off his startup loan. "Ms. Lynn, the deceased was an elderly person. The family requested we restore the appearance as closely as possible to how they looked in life. Here is the deposit; the remaining balance will be settled in full once the restoration is complete." The agent's voice still echoed in the phone. I nodded at the phone: "Don't worry, I'll do it well. I'll double-check the details with the family." After hanging up, I looked at the deposit that had arrived on W Chat and couldn't help but smile slightly. This money is enough to cover three months of the loan principal and interest. I hurried out of the agency. The evening breeze brought the chill of early autumn, but it couldn't blow away the warmth in my heart. I just wanted to get home as soon as possible and share the good news with Henry Shaw. The residential community we live in isn't upscale; the motion-activated lights in the stairwell flicker on and off. I climbed to the third floor and was just about to pull out my keys when I heard faint noises slipping through the crack of the door—not from the TV, but a woman's coquettish voice mixed with Henry Shaw's deep laughter. My footsteps abruptly stopped; my heart felt like it was being clenched by an invisible hand, and even my breathing became labored. I softened my steps, pressing against the cold door as I listened. "Henry, when are you going to come clean with Nancy Lynn? I can't wait any longer." It was Stella Scott, Henry Shaw's secretary, her voice brimming with urgency, laced with a deliberately soft and sweet tone. Henry's voice came through, carrying a dismissiveness and impatience I'd never heard before, though he deliberately softened it: "What's the rush? Once the loan is fully paid off, I'll divorce her right away." Her worth is almost completely drained as well. What about Daniel? Can he accept me? Stella asked again, a hint of unease in her voice. Daniel is sensible; he's already on my side. Henry Shaw chuckled lightly, his voice full of confidence, "Besides, you can have me a better-behaved kid in the future. Worried about not having enough children around?" "Annoying." Stella's playful voice pierced my eardrums. I couldn't hold back anymore and pushed open the slightly ajar door. The living room lights were harsh; Henry Shaw was holding Stella on the sofa, both disheveled, with Stella's lipstick smeared on Henry's collar. When they saw me come in, they panicked for a moment but quickly regained their composure. At that moment, my son Daniel Shaw walked out of the bedroom wearing cartoon pajamas. Seeing the tension on my face, instead of worry, his tone was more like reproach: "Mom, why are you back? Didn't you say you'd be working overtime tonight?" "Did I come back at a bad time?" My voice trembled uncontrollably as I stared fixedly at Henry Shaw. "Was what you just said true?" Henry stood up, casually straightened his wrinkled collar, then completely gave up, his eyes cold. "So what if it's true? Nancy Lynn, there's no love left between us. If I didn't still need you to pay off the debt, I'd have asked for a divorce a long time ago." "No feelings?" My eyes welled up, but I held back the tears, the anger and hurt twisting together in my chest. "I worked around the clock—daytime in front of the computer handling reports, nighttime restoring cold corpses' faces—all just to help you pay off the loan. And this is how you repay me?" Stella stood up from the sofa, linked her arm with Henry's, and looked at me with a mocking smirk. "Nancy, you can't say it like that." That was your choice. No one forced you. Henry loves me; you'd better be smart and step aside. I looked at Daniel, my son whom I raised alone—from a swaddled infant to an elementary school student. I gave everything to protect him, hoping he would say something fair. But Daniel quickly walked over to Henry, looked up, and said with a sense of entitlement, "Mom, you should just divorce Dad." Ms. Stella is better than you. She buys me toys and takes me to amusement parks, while you just keep me at home doing homework—and you even smell weird. "What did you say?" I looked at him in disbelief, my voice trembling. "I said, give up your seat!" Daniel Shaw raised his voice, his eyes full of disdain. "You only know how to work all day and never care about me. I've long since stopped wanting to stay with you!" That sentence was like a sharp knife, piercing deeply into my heart. I looked at these two people, whom I had devoted ten years of my youth to caring for, and felt a chill run through my entire body, coldness seeping from my bones. It turned out that my efforts meant nothing to them—just stepping stones they could easily discard. I didn't argue anymore. I turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door and shutting out the laughter from outside. In the darkness, tears finally slipped down, falling silently onto the pillow.