Chapter 3: The Truth About “Stepmother”
“She’s not his mother, Maya,” Ms. Delaney said, her voice rooted in a grim reality. “She’s 22 years older than him. They share the same last name because she took his when they married 10 years ago. They filed the paperwork in another state to avoid local cross-referencing.”
The nausea took on a physical force. I pressed a hand over my mouth, closing my eyes.
All the memories I had of the last eighteen months began to play backwards, warping and contorting into new, grotesque, and horrible forms.
I thought about how Diane had always been there. When Ryan and I first started dating, she was the loving mother who practically lived in her apartment. When we bought our house, it was Diane who insisted on having a key “in case of emergency.” I remembered the times I’d come home early from work and find them sitting on the sofa, giggling quietly, quickly parting ways when I walked into the room. I’d chalked it up to a very close mother-son bond. I’d found it sweet that a man would love his mother so much.
Oh my God. The boundaries. The constant intrusions. Diane hadn’t been an authoritarian stepmother protecting her son; she had been a wife guarding her husband, marking her territory.
“Why?” I sobbed, the tears now falling freely. “Why would they do that? I don’t have millions in the bank. I earn a good living, but I’m not rich. What’s the point of staging an elaborate, fake wedding? Why let him marry me?”
Ms. Delaney looked at me, her eyes dark. “Think about it, Maya. What legal documents have you signed recently? What changes in your financial situation have occurred because of this marriage?”
My breath caught in my throat. The memory hit me with the force of a freight train.
One month ago. We were sitting on the kitchen island, drinking wine. Ryan had brought home an elegant file from a broker.
“Baby, I know it’s morbid to think about,” he said, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. “But we’re buying this house, we’re starting a life. If something happened to you, I’d lose the house. I’d lose everything. We have to be responsible. We need life insurance.”
It made sense at the time. It was the grown-up thing to do. I had passed the medical exam. I had signed the papers. A policy that would pay out in the event of accidental death or tragedy.
“Life insurance,” I murmured, my voice trembling so badly it was barely audible. “Two million dollars. I signed the finalized policy last week. Ryan is the sole beneficiary.”
Mrs. Delaney closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting out a heavy sigh. “There he is.”
“They weren’t hosting a bride,” I realized, horror wrapping itself around my throat like a cold hand. “They were expecting payment. A sacrifice.”
