Poucos meses depois de dar à luz seus gêmeos, minha sogra de 51 anos implorou, em prantos, que eu os adotasse após sua morte. Não consegui conter as lágrimas quando ela fez outra revelação comovente.
Minha vida estava no auge da felicidade. O que mais eu poderia pedir do que um lindo ninho cheio de amor e aconchego? Fui abençoada com meu amado marido, William, e nossos três filhinhos, que tornaram minha vida mais feliz e agitada a cada dia.
Não éramos muito ricos, mas sempre tínhamos motivos para comemorar cada pequena alegria que surgia, e o vigésimo sétimo aniversário de William marcou mais um dia importante de festa, diversão e momentos em família. Fizemos uma festa de aniversário em casa e convidamos meus sogros, familiares e amigos.
Apenas para fins ilustrativos | Fonte: Pexels
Tudo estava indo bem. Risadas se espalharam por nossa pequena casa, e a alegria encheu nossos corações quando William fez um brinde. Foi então que minha sogra, Marley, entrou na conversa e fez outro brinde.
“Aos meus dois pãezinhos no forno!!” , anunciou ela, e um silêncio grave tomou conta da sala. Minha sogra de 50 anos estava grávida de gêmeos por fertilização in vitro…
William ficou extremamente envergonhado. Alguns comemoraram e brindaram com a minha sogra, enquanto outros começaram a cochichar. Meu marido ficou visivelmente furioso. Segurei sua mão e gesticulei para que ele se acalmasse.
“Podemos resolver isso depois, querida. Tem gente olhando”, sussurrei.
Eu sabia que seria difícil para William digerir a notícia, pois estávamos planejando outro bebê. Enquanto sonhávamos em ser pais novamente, meu marido seria um irmão.
A dor e o amor são como gêmeos siameses. Não existe um sem o outro.
“Jessica, você não entende. Como a mamãe pôde fazer isso? Ela tem cinquenta anos e vai fazer cinquenta e um em breve… Como ela pôde…” William se irritou. Eu estava presa entre meu marido e a mãe dele.
Apenas para fins ilustrativos | Fonte: Pexels
Eu sabia que minha sogra e o marido dela vinham lidando com uma crise de relacionamento há muito tempo. Talvez ela achasse que ter filhos pudesse curar e resolver as diferenças entre eles. Eu não tinha certeza, mas sentia pena da minha sogra. Eu sabia que não foi uma decisão fácil que ela tomou da noite para o dia. Ela deve ter pensado muito sobre isso, e isso custou todas as suas economias.
Meses se passaram e, uma semana depois de minha sogra completar 51 anos, ela deu à luz seus gêmeos. Foi um parto complicado, então fiquei perto dela na maternidade.
Logo, toda aquela dor e sofrimento que ela suportou se transformaram em alegria quando ela ouviu o choro alto de seus dois pequenos pacotes de alegria. Ela estava muito feliz — eu percebi isso ao ver as lágrimas infinitas de alegria escorrendo de seus olhos enquanto segurava seus bebês. Isso também me fez chorar, e fiquei muito feliz por ela.
Então, de repente, meu telefone tocou. Ouvi William soluçando, e então ele gaguejou:
“Querido, meu querido, papai sofreu um acidente. Ele morreu na hora.”
“O QUÊ??” Larguei o telefone e olhei para minha sogra, que estava a mais feliz do mundo, abraçando seus bebês. Como vou contar a ela que o marido dela morreu?, gritei do lado de fora da enfermaria. Mas a verdade tinha que vir à tona de uma forma ou de outra.
Apenas para fins ilustrativos | Fonte: Pixabay
Alguns dias se passaram e minha sogra ficou preocupada com o marido.
“Querido”, ela me chamou. “Onde está o David? Por que ele não veio?”
“Mãe, vamos para casa primeiro”, disse William. Ele ficou sem palavras depois disso, e não conseguimos descobrir como contar a verdade para a mãe dele.
Levamos minha sogra e seus bebês de volta para casa e, à medida que nos aproximávamos, nossos corações começaram a bater mais rápido. Minha sogra quase desmaiou ao ver a foto emoldurada do falecido marido, cercada de flores, guirlandas e velas. Ela entendeu que ele havia partido, para nunca mais voltar.
Algumas semanas se passaram e, à medida que a poeira da dor se dissipava, meus filhos e eu nos tornamos os pilares da minha sogra. Nós a ajudamos a cuidar dos bebês enquanto ela superava os problemas pós-parto. Enquanto pensávamos que a tempestade havia se acalmado, minha sogra me ligou um dia, dizendo que queria compartilhar um segredo. Mas, quando a encontrei em particular, ela primeiro me pediu para fazer uma promessa.
“Jessica, você vai adotar meus bebês depois que eu partir?” ela perguntou.
“O quê? Por que você diz isso?”
“Porque recentemente fui diagnosticado com câncer terminal. Não me resta muito tempo.”
Fiquei arrasada quando ouvi isso. Mas não foi só isso. Minha sogra então revelou um segredo terrível que ela e o falecido marido esconderam de William por toda a vida.
“David e eu achávamos que nosso relacionamento melhoraria depois de adotarmos William. Não melhorou, mas amávamos nosso filho profundamente. Mas isso nos incomodava muito, pois não podíamos ter filhos devido à infertilidade de David.”
Apenas para fins ilustrativos | Fonte: Getty Images
Eu sabia que era uma ideia idiota, mas queria ser mãe mesmo tendo cinquenta anos e ainda não tendo chegado à menopausa. Queria ter meus próprios filhos, e a fertilização in vitro ajudou. Eu deveria ter feito isso antes, mas o medo da sociedade sempre me assombrou. Então percebi que a sociedade não estava lidando com a minha dor… Eu estava… então corri o risco.
Fiquei surpresa quando descobri que meu marido era filho adotivo da minha sogra. Pior de tudo, ele não sabia disso.
Como lhe contarei a verdade? Devo mesmo contar-lhe e destruir-lhe a paz? Ou devo levar este segredo para o túmulo?, ponderei.
Minha sogra quebrou meu silêncio implorando para que eu prometesse ficar com os bebês dela depois que ela morresse. Eu estava dividida. Eu já tinha três filhos, e William tinha acabado de se estabelecer em seu novo emprego e ainda estávamos com dificuldades financeiras. Mas a história da minha sogra era diferente. Ela era uma professora aposentada que sobrevivia da sua pensão. Em suma, ela não teve dias difíceis como nós.
Acolher os filhos dela significaria o dobro de responsabilidade e despesas. Foi difícil para mim decidir, mas, naquele momento, não consegui pensar em mais nada além de oferecer meus ombros para ela se apoiar.
“Eu prometo, mãe. Vou criar seus filhos como se fossem meus. Serei a mãe deles, aconteça o que acontecer.”
Eu pressentia os obstáculos que me aguardavam, mas estava preparada para enfrentá-los. Fui criada em um abrigo para órfãos e sabia como era difícil viver sem o apoio e o amor dos meus pais. De qualquer forma, eu não estava pronta para dar aos filhos da minha sogra aquela vida sombria.
Alguns meses depois, minha sogra perdeu a batalha contra o câncer. Eu sabia que isso aconteceria, mas não estava preparada para que acontecesse tão cedo.
Depois que ela foi sepultada ao lado do amado marido, decidi revelar a verdade a William. Eu sabia que isso o magoaria, mas eu tinha que fazer isso.
Apenas para fins ilustrativos | Fonte: Pexels
“Querida, tem uma coisa que eu quero te contar”, comecei, olhando fundo nos olhos marejados de William. Era evidente que ele sentia muita falta da mãe.
“Prometi à sua mãe que adotaria os bebês dela. Eles precisam de nós. Temos que criá-los. Não podemos abandoná-los, querida.”
Nesse momento, meu marido me abraçou forte e chorou no meu ombro. Ele me disse que inicialmente sentia ciúmes dos irmãos recém-nascidos, mas depois que eles perderam os pais em poucos meses, percebeu que aquelas duas vidinhas inocentes precisavam dele. Ele também havia decidido acolhê-los e criá-los. Meu marido me disse que estava esperando para discutir isso comigo e pedir minha permissão.
“Querida, sou tão abençoada por ter você. Você me ensinou o verdadeiro significado do amor. Fiquei envergonhada quando minha mãe teve seus bebês. Eu não a entendia. Mas sinto muita falta dela agora, e quero dizer a ela o quanto a amo…”, disse ele, chorando.
Abracei William e suspirei de alívio. Mas ainda havia algo me incomodando. Será que eu deveria contar a William sobre sua adoção?
Naquele dia, prometi a mim mesma que seria uma boa mãe para os meus cinco filhos e levaria o segredo da adoção do meu marido para o túmulo. Não faria diferença, porque o amor vem do coração, não do DNA. Ele amava seus falecidos pais, e eu não queria estragar isso enquanto estivesse viva.
Apenas para fins ilustrativos | Fonte: Getty Images
O que podemos aprender com essa história?
- Só o amor e a bondade podem curar um coração partido. Quando Marley soube que morreria de câncer em breve, pediu a Jessica que adotasse seus bebês. Apesar das dificuldades, Jessica concordou porque amava e simpatizava com a sogra.
- Luto e amor são como gêmeos siameses. Não se tem um sem o outro. William ficou constrangido quando sua mãe anunciou a gravidez. Ele chegou a sentir ciúmes dos irmãos recém-nascidos. Mas, depois que sua mãe faleceu, ele percebeu o quanto a amava e sentia falta dela.
Compartilhe esta história com seus amigos. Ela pode alegrar o dia deles e inspirá-los.
My Fiancée Vacuumed Up and Threw Away My Dead Mother’s Ashes from the Urn
I treasured my mother’s ashes for three years after her death. Her urn was that one sacred thing I asked my fiancée to never touch. But in her rush to make our home spotless, my fiancée vacuumed up the ashes, threw them out with the trash, and hid the truth from me.
Does the death of a loved one mean they’re gone from us forever? My mother Rosemary was my sun, moon, stars, and everything in between. After her death, I still felt her presence through the urn that held her ashes. Until the day my fiancée decided to “clean” our apartment, and my world shattered all over again.
An older lady’s framed photo, an urn, and glowing candles on a table | Source: Midjourney
The evening air was thick with memories as I stood in our living room, touching the silver frame that held Mom’s favorite photo.
She wore her favorite white dress and smiled at the camera, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
It had been five days since the accident that killed Mom, but some days, the pain felt as fresh as the morning I got the call from the hospital.
A man holding an older woman’s framed photo | Source: Midjourney
“Hey, Christian,” my sister Florence called from the couch. She had moved in after Mom passed, and her presence helped fill the echoing emptiness of my heart.
“Remember how Mom would always say grace before dinner, even if we were just having cereal?”
I smiled, running my finger along the frame. “Yeah, and remember how she’d catch us sneaking cookies before dinner? She’d try to look stern but end up laughing instead.”
A sad woman looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
“God, the way she’d put her hands on her hips,” Florence said, wiping her eyes. “Like she was trying so hard to be mad at us.”
“‘Lord give me strength!’” we said in unison, mimicking Mom’s exasperated tone, and for a moment, it felt like she was there with us.
The front door opened, and my girlfriend Kiara walked in, her footsteps hesitant. She’d been like that since Mom died, always hovering at the edges of our grief, never quite knowing how to step in.
A woman in the hallway | Source: Midjourney
“I picked up dinner,” she said, holding up a takeout bag. “Chinese. From that place you like, Christian.”
“Thanks,” I replied coldly. Something had changed between us since Mom’s death. It was like a wall had grown where there used to be an open door.
Two weeks after the funeral, I came home early from work to find Kiara packing a suitcase. The sight stopped me cold in the doorway.
“Where are you going?” I asked, though the answer was written in every careful fold of clothing she placed in the bag.
A woman packing her clothes | Source: Pexels
She didn’t look up. “I need some time, Christian. This… all of this… it’s too much.”
“Too much? My mother died, Kiara. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know how to help you!” She finally met my eyes, her own filled with tears. “You cry every night. You spend hours staring at her pictures. You and Florence keep talking about memories I wasn’t part of, and I feel like an outsider in my own home.”
“So your solution is to leave? When I need you most?”
A sad man looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
“Please try to understand—”
“Understand what? That my girlfriend of four years can’t handle a few weeks of grief? That you’d rather run away than support me?”
“That’s not fair!” Kiara’s hands trembled as she folded another shirt. “I’m trying my best! But it looks like you’ll take forever to move on, Chris.”
“Your best?” I grabbed the shirt from her hands. “Your best is packing your bags while I’m at work? Not even having the decency to tell me to my face that you care more about yourself than me… and my grief?”
A shocked woman | Source: Midjourney
“I was going to call you—”
“Oh, that makes it so much better!” I threw the shirt across the room. “What happened to ‘I’ll always be there for you’? What happened to ‘we’re in this together’?”
“I’m not equipped for this, Christian. I can’t be what you need right now.”
“I never asked you to be anything but present, Kiara. Just to sit with me, to hold my hand, to let me know I’m not alone. But I guess that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”
A distressed man with a woman | Source: Pexels
She picked up her suitcase, her shoulders shaking. “I’m staying with my friend Shannon for a while. I’ll text you. I just… I need space to figure this out.”
“Figure what out? How to be a decent human being? Go ahead, run away. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”
Kiara left without saying anything.
Florence moved in the next day, bringing with her the comfort of shared grief and understanding. We spent evenings looking through old photo albums, crying together, and laughing at memories of Mom’s terrible dancing and amazing cooking.
A man watching a woman leave with her bag | Source: Pexels
“She would have hated this,” Florence said one night, gesturing at the takeout containers littering our coffee table. “Remember how she used to say fast food was ‘the devil’s cooking’?”
“But she’d still take us to McDonald’s after doctor appointments,” I added, smiling at the memory. “Said it was ‘medicinal French fries.’”
“Chris, did Kiara call?”
“Nope! Just texted. You know, I stayed with her through her father’s illness, her bad days, her everything. And yet here I am, alone in my own grief. I needed her, but maybe she just didn’t love me enough.”
An upset an sitting on the couch | Source: Pexels
The only way Kiara contacted me was through texts like, “Hope you’re okay.”
I typed and deleted, “I needed you, Kiara.” But sent, “I’m managing. Thanks.”
A month after Kiara left, she asked to meet at our usual coffee shop. She sat across from me, looking smaller somehow, her hands wrapped around an untouched latte.
“Shannon’s boyfriend confronted me yesterday,” she hesitantly began. “Called me selfish and cold-hearted. Said I abandoned you when you needed me most.”
A woman in a coffee shop | Source: Unsplash
I stayed silent, watching her struggle with the words.
“He was right,” Kiara continued. “I’ve started therapy, Christian. I want to be better. I want to learn how to be there for you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
“How do I know you won’t leave again?” I asked, the fear raw in my voice.
“Because I love you,” she replied, reaching across the table. “And I’m learning that love means staying, even when it hurts. Even when you don’t know what to say or do. I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
A woman holding a man’s hand | Source: Unsplash
Life settled into a new pattern after that. Kiara moved back in, and three years later, we started planning our wedding.
Mom’s urn remained on its special table in the corner, surrounded by her photos and her plastic rosary — the one she’d carried everywhere, even to the grocery store.
“We should divide the ashes,” I suggested to Florence one evening. “You could have half.”
She shook her head, touching the urn gently. “No, let’s keep them together. It’s what Mom would have wanted.”
An urn on a shelf | Source: Midjourney
I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes as I thought about Mom and how much I’d miss her at my wedding. I’d already decided: the urn with her ashes would have a special spot in the front row of the church. It would make me feel like Mom was there, blessing me as I took this important step in my life.
The wedding planning consumed our days. And Kiara seemed different. She was more present and understanding.
She held me when the grief hit unexpectedly, sat through stories about Mom without fidgeting, and even asked questions about her sometimes.
Grayscale shot of bridal accessories | Source: Pexels
Then, the call from Florence came on a Tuesday evening, just three days before my wedding. “Hey, Chris? I was wondering if I could have Mom’s rosary. The plastic one? I found a photo of her holding it, and—”
“Of course,” I said, moving toward the urn. “Let me just—”
The words died in my throat as I opened it. Inside, where Mom’s ashes should have been, sat a Ziploc bag filled with… SAND? The rosary lay beside it, exactly where I’d left it three years ago.
The front door opened, and Kiara walked in carrying shopping bags. One look at my face, and hers drained of color.
“What did you do to Mom’s ashes?” I asked.
A man pointing a finger | Source: Pexels
She set the bags down slowly, her hands trembling. “Honey, it’s not what you think. I didn’t do it intentionally—”
“What did you do, Kiara?”
A long silence followed. Then she confessed, “I was cleaning while you were at work a few months ago. The apartment needed a deep clean, and—”
“And what?”
“I picked up the urn to clean the table and accidentally dropped it. It shattered. I quickly assembled the ashes into a bag. But the bag tore. The ashes spilled onto the carpet. I… I panicked. I vacuumed them up and threw the ashes into the trash outside.”
My knees buckled. “You vacuumed my mother’s ashes and threw them in the trash?”
A woman using a vacuum cleaner | Source: Pexels
“I didn’t know what to do. I got some sand from the park nearby. Found a replica of the same urn in the antique shop downtown. I filled it up with the sand. I… I thought you’d never open it again.”
“Never open it? You thought I’d never want to see my mother’s ashes again?”
“I was trying to clean the house. It was just an accident.”
“Clean?” I slammed my hand against the wall. “Those weren’t dust bunnies under the couch, Kiara! That was my mother! The only physical piece of her I had left!”
A shocked man | Source: Midjourney
“I’m sorry, Christian!” she sobbed. “I wasn’t thinking!”
“Clearly!” I picked up the urn, cradling it to my chest. “You weren’t thinking when you decided to ‘clean’ around the one thing I specifically asked you never to touch. You weren’t thinking when you vacuumed up my mother’s remains like they were dirt. And you certainly weren’t thinking when you replaced them with sand and lied to my face for months!”
“Please, Christian, we can fix this—”
“Fix this? How exactly do you propose we fix this, Kiara? Should we go dumpster diving? Should we sift through garbage bags looking for my mother’s ashes?”
An emotional, teary-eyed woman | Source: Midjourney
“I’ll do anything—”
“Did you even try, Kiara? Did you even attempt to salvage anything? Or did you just panic and run to the park for sand, like you always run away when things get hard?”
Her silence filled the room like poison.
“That’s what I thought.” I started gathering Mom’s photos from the table before dumping the sand from the urn. “You know what the worst part is? I actually believed you’d changed. I thought all that therapy and all those promises meant something. But you’re still the same person who left me when my mother died. You’re still running from the hard stuff.”
Close-up shot of an angry man yelling at a woman | Source: Pexels
“Our wedding’s in three days. Please… I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. Where are you going, Christian?”
“Away from you!” I grabbed my keys and things. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
Before stepping out, I looked back, hoping stupidly for a sign of regret. Anything to show she understood what she’d done.
But Kiara just stared at the floor, her face unreadable, and already distant. My chest tightened, and the last bit of hope drained out of me. Without another word, I turned and left, the empty urn heavy in my hands.
A man walking away with a suitcase | Source: Pexels
The hotel room I checked in felt sterile and cold. I sat on the edge of the bed, Mom’s photos spread around me. My phone buzzed continuously with messages from Kiara, but I couldn’t bring myself to read them.
How would I tell Florence? How could I explain that the last piece of our mother was likely buried in a landfill or blown away like dust because my fiancée treated her remains like dirt?
As dawn broke, I stared at the urn one last time, realizing I was left with only emptiness and betrayal.
A distressed man | Source: Pexels
Things would never be the same, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to forgive my fiancée. Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I never could. But deep down, in a corner of my heart, I hoped my mother would forgive me.
I took the rosary, feeling the familiar smooth plastic under my fingers.
“The night before your accident, you made Florence and me promise to keep it safe, Mom. Said it would help us find our way when we felt lost,” I whispered, tears brimming in my eyes.
“Maybe that’s why you wanted us to have it. Because you knew that someday, we’d need something more than your ashes to hold onto.”
A man holding a rosary | Source: Pixabay
I clutched the rosary tighter, remembering Mom’s words, “Love isn’t in the things we keep, dear. It’s in the memories we make and the forgiveness we offer.”
I don’t know if I can forgive Kiara. Every time I close my eyes, I see Mom’s ashes being sucked away into nothing. How do you forgive something like that?
I stepped out onto the seashore nearby. The city lights blurred through my tears as I clutched the empty urn and rosary to my chest. A gentle breeze stirred, reminding me of how Mom used to say the wind carried whispers from heaven.
An emotional man’s eyes | Source: Unsplash
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, looking up at the sky. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect your ashes. I had one job — to keep you safe. But I failed. But I want you to know… wherever you are… that you’re still here with me. In every breath I take, in every memory I hold, and in every prayer these beads have witnessed. I love you, Mom. I’ll love you until my last breath and beyond that. Please forgive me.”
The wind seemed to wrap around me like one of her warm embraces, and for a moment, I could almost hear her whisper, “There’s nothing to forgive, dear. Nothing at all. Love you too.”
Silhouette of a man standing on the seashore | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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