UNTIL DEATH WASN’T ENOUGH

CRACKS IN THE FRAME

Chapter Three: Cracks in the Frame

I slept with Anna beside me that night.

I didn’t ask her to stay—she just knew. After the wrench, the sink, the book… I couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t close my eyes without wondering if something—or someone—would be watching me through the walls.

So she slid into bed beside me like we were kids again, pulling the blanket up to her chin and pretending not to notice how badly I was shaking. She said nothing. Just breathed beside me in quiet solidarity.

I didn’t sleep.

I lay there wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of every possible reason why this was happening. A prank? A hallucination? Was I sleepwalking, doing all these things myself and forgetting?

Or was Daniel… really here?

I didn’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t think of anything else.

Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling me.

I snatched it up quickly, afraid of waking Anna.

1 new message — from a number I hadn’t seen in months.

My stomach sank when I saw the name: Mum D.

Daniel’s mother.

“We just arrived in town. We’ll be over tomorrow.”

I froze. My breath caught in my chest.

Of course. Of course they were coming.

They hadn’t been at the funeral. They’d been out of the country—visiting Daniel’s aunt in Italy when the accident happened. Flights had been delayed. Time zones had worked against them. I hadn’t heard from them since the morning after he died, when his father called me, quiet and apologetic.

But I hadn’t spoken to his mother.

Not once.

I dreaded seeing her again. I’d known her since I was six years old. Back when she used to press lollipops into my palm and tell me I had “the face of a girl destined to marry her son.” She used to say she loved me like her own.

But that was before.

Before my father got caught in a scam and everything fell apart. Before bankruptcy. Before the whispers started.

And long before she decided I wasn’t good enough for Daniel anymore.

When he told her he was marrying me, she didn’t hide how she felt.

And now, without him here to stand between us, I wasn’t sure what she’d do. Or say. Or accuse.

I didn’t sleep. I just cried.

Quietly.

Tucked under the blanket beside my sister, I let silent tears slide into the pillow, muffling the sobs I couldn’t afford to let out.

Not now.

I woke early the next morning, my eyes heavy and dry, the inside of my mouth feeling like cotton. I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom quietly. Anna didn’t stir.

After my bath, I wiped the mirror instinctively, scanning it for smudges. Fingerprints. Anything.

Nothing today.

The glass was clean. Clear. Ordinary.

Somehow, that made it worse.

I dressed in a plain dress—one of the few that didn’t feel like mourning fabric—and went downstairs to start preparing. I didn’t know what to cook, didn’t know if I should even bother. But the house needed something that felt normal. Human. Alive.

Daniel always helped in the kitchen. Even when I tried to insist he relax, he’d roll up his sleeves and step in, taste-testing and teasing and carrying half the work without being asked.

He was the cook in this marriage.

Without him, I felt like a child staring at a stove.

But I remembered him once saying that his mom liked mac and cheese. Simple. Comfort food. That’s what I needed today—for them and for me.

I pulled out my phone and opened YouTube.

I was halfway through a tutorial when Anna walked in.

“What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Trying to make something,” I said without looking up. “Dan’s parents are coming over.”

That made her pause.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I lied quickly.

“Need help?”

I hesitated, then shook my head.

“No. I want to do it myself. Just… let me.”

She nodded slowly and left me to it.

I burned the first batch of pasta.

The second one turned out better, and after forty minutes of pure chaos, something resembling food was on the stove. I set the table carefully, placing three plates in silence. I wiped down the surfaces twice. Everything had to be perfect.

At least, passably perfect.

Believe it or not, I had spent four hours making this “simple” meal.

It was ten minutes past two when the doorbell rang.

My stomach dropped.

I fixed my dress, wiped my palms on a towel, and opened the door.

Daniel’s father, Richard, stood there in a gray coat, holding a bouquet of pale flowers. He gave me a gentle smile—small and tired.

His wife, Margaret, stood beside him, arms folded. Her lips were pressed into a hard line. She didn’t smile. Didn’t look me in the eyes.

“Come in,” I said quietly.

Richard stepped in first, placing a hand on my shoulder in passing.

Margaret said nothing as she brushed by me, her perfume thick and suffocating.

We sat at the table. I served them carefully. Every motion felt rehearsed. They didn’t speak as I poured water, sat down, and folded my hands in my lap.

Margaret looked around the table like she was judging a crime scene.

“How thoughtful,” she said dryly. “A full spread. Looks like we’re here to celebrate his death.”

Richard’s head snapped to her. “Margaret.”

She shrugged. “What? I’m just saying.”

“Enough.”

The silence that followed was so heavy it could’ve cracked the windows.

Finally, Richard turned to me.

“How are you coping, dear?”

I swallowed. “Trying. Anna’s staying with me for now. Just until school starts again.”

“She’s out now?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” I lied. “Getting some things.”

Anna hated the sight of Margaret after everything she had done to me and said about our family when I was getting married to Daniel.

You wouldn’t believe she even gave me a blank check to stay away from her son. Feeling like a chaebol wife from a Korean drama or something.

Margaret gave a snort. “I’m sure you’re already doing fine. Must be easier now that you’ve driven my son to his death.”

Her voice cut through me like ice.

“Margaret,” her husband said firmly, but she kept going.

“You act so innocently. Like you’re the grieving widow.”

“Margaret,watch it”. Richard said.

“But didn’t you hear what Dante said? She caused it all.”

I froze.

“What?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

It was the first time I’d spoken directly to her since they walked in. In fact, in years.

Margaret turned to me fully now, eyes blazing.

“Dante said you two were fighting. That Daniel found out you were cheating. Three days before he died. You argued the night he drove off. That’s why he was in that car.”

“No,” I said, almost whispering.

“Yes,” she snapped, standing. Her hands were trembling. “You broke his heart. You killed him.”

“I didn’t—” I shook my head. “That’s not true. We were—We weren’t perfect, but I never cheated. I never—”

But my voice was drowned by her rising voice.

“You let him die knowing you didn’t love him anymore!”

Tears were already in my eyes, hot and fast.

Richard stood and grabbed her wrist.

“Enough, Margaret. We’re leaving.”

She was still yelling as he pulled her toward the door, her voice breaking and raw. Her grief was loud. Violent.

Mine was just quiet.

Numb.

I sat back down at the table, staring at the plate of mac and cheese. The one I’d made for Daniel’s mother.

No one touched it.

And in my chest, something cracked open.

Maybe Margaret was wrong.

Maybe Dante was lying.

Or maybe… she was right.

Maybe I deserved everything that was happening now.