FINDING A WIFE
1500 Words
PRINCE ADAMS — POV
I was driving to the barber’s when the memory hit—one of those unwanted flashbacks that shoved the present aside and dragged you back into childhood.
Flashback
I saw myself as a small boy tiptoeing through Granny’s living room. She sat in her favorite squeaky chair, clutching a photograph to her chest. Before I could speak, she lifted it and kissed it softly.
“That’s my husband,” she said without looking at me. “Your grandpa. He died in a car accident on his way to work.”
My little heart squeezed painfully. I wrapped my arms around her waist. I told her I would take care of her one day, become a great man, and give her everything.
She laughed—warm and shaky—and blessed me. But then her smile faded.
“What happened to your arm?” she asked, spotting the scratch on my skin. “Tell me the truth.”
“I got into a fight,” I whispered. “A boy laughed at me because… I don’t have a father.”
Her expression softened. She held my hand gently.
“Prince, bullies only feel strong when they make others feel small. The best answer is silence, not anger.”
I nodded, though anger was something that grew inside me like a shadow. Even then.
Trying to brighten the moment, I lifted the picture. Grandpa looked young, happy, unaware of the tragedy ahead.
“He was lucky to have you,” I said. “I wish I’d seen him.”
She pulled me close again, then lifted my face between her palms. “If you want to marry a good woman someday, you must first become a good man. Like your grandpa.”
“Eww,” I groaned.
She burst into laughter. “I can’t wait to hear you talk about women when you grow up.”
The memory faded, replaced by another—one that hit me harder.
Another Flashback
I was seventeen, angry about everything and nothing. I had torn through the house looking for my school project, kicking a chair when I couldn’t find it. The crash echoed through the house.
Granny rushed in, alarmed. “Prince!”
I stood there breathing hard, fists clenched, fury burning through me.
She approached slowly and placed her hand on my cheek. “Son… your anger isn’t your fault. Being abandoned wounded you deeply. But you’re grown now. Let it go. Don’t let the past control the man you’re becoming.”
I didn’t answer. But I never forgot.
End of flashbacks
I blinked and found myself back behind the wheel, heading toward the barber shop, wondering how many of those childhood promises I was still trying to keep.
---
My phone rang. Daniel.
“Are you alive?” he asked dramatically.
“I’m not some woman crying over heartbreak,” I muttered.
He laughed. “Good. Because if you don’t come back soon, I’m throwing a party in your house.”
I snorted. Daniel would never do it. Pastor’s son. Third child. Born into comfort and faith. Unlike me, who had days when Granny and I ate whatever she could afford. Still, she used every coin she earned to put me in the best schools.
That’s where I met Daniel.
His parents were pastors of one of the biggest churches. He grew up shielded, disciplined, constantly supervised. Now he was engaged to Emmy, a sweet bishop’s daughter. I couldn’t wait for his wedding. I already had a surprise gift planned.
But right now, I had bigger things to worry about.
I needed a wife.
---
Flashback — Third Person
The city felt too loud as Granny stood outside the coffee shop. Her palms were sweaty, her breaths shallow. The lights inside flickered warmly, but the warmth didn’t reach her. She reached for the door—then her phone buzzed.
Prince.
She answered quickly. “I’m okay… I just wanted to walk alone.”
“Granny, turn on your location,” I told her. “And don’t go out alone again.”
Her thumb hesitated, then she obeyed.
After hanging up, she inhaled deeply, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. Warm lights, grinding coffee beans, quiet conversations—it was all a hum in her ears. She wasn’t looking at the shop.
She was looking at her.
The woman.
Their eyes locked. The woman rose instantly, clutching her purse like a shield. Panic sliced through Granny. She turned to leave, but the woman caught her wrist.
“Please, Nurse Cindy… don’t go.”
Granny’s voice shook. “I have nothing to discuss. Let go.”
“You came here just to run away?” the woman asked, stepping closer.
“What do you want from me?” Granny whispered.
“I want answers,” the woman said, tears shimmering. “When I went to the house you sent me to, they didn’t know I was coming. I waited all evening. I slept in a hotel. The next day, thank God, they took me in. But they never heard of you.”
Granny’s body stiffened.
“I want to leave now,” she murmured.
But then—
“I want to see his grave.”
Granny froze. Completely. As if her soul had stepped out of her body. The noise around them faded into nothing. Her fingers trembled. Her lips parted, but no breath escaped.
His grave.
The two words that could unravel everything.
The moment Granny left the coffee shop, her breath hitched—not from the walk, but from the weight of the words she’d heard. His grave. It echoed in her mind like a bell tolling from some faraway tower. But she didn’t cry. Not yet. She only pressed a trembling hand to her chest as she walked home, each step slower than the last. She cried.
Her breathing turned shallow. A cough tore through her, dry and sharp. The sickness she’d been hiding for weeks surged violently, as though the stress had woken it from sleep. By the time she hung up, her chest burned, and she sank onto the edge of her bed with a soft, helpless sigh.
From then on, the illness tightened its grip. Her steps grew weaker, her hands more unsteady. She found herself forgetting to eat, resting often, waking in the night breathless. She hid it all from Prince—she always hid her pain from him—but in the quiet moments, she knew her body was failing.
One late evening, after a particularly brutal episode of coughing, she reached for her writing box. Her fingers shook as she opened it. She took out a blank sheet of paper, stared at it, and felt the fear ripple through her bones. She wasn’t afraid of dying. She was afraid of leaving things unsaid.
She wrote slowly, painfully. Every word took effort. She paused often to catch her breath, pressing a hand to her chest to ease the ache. But she kept writing. She needed Prince to know the truth—or at least the part of it she believed he deserved. When she finished, she folded the paper neatly, slid it into a small envelope, and kissed the top of it with trembling lips.
Then she hid it in a small carved box under her bed—one only Prince would find if he ever searched deeply enough. She whispered a prayer over it, asking God to guide him to it when the time was right.
Days passed. Her sickness worsened. And then came the moment Prince would remember forever.
He had come home frustrated—an argument at work, traffic, a missed call. The little annoyances that stacked on each other until his temper cracked. When he entered the house and found the living room lights off, his irritation burst before he could stop it. He slammed the door hard enough that the frame rattled.
Granny flinched from her chair, her heart leaping in her chest. She stood slowly, clutching the edge of the table for balance.
“Prince?” Her voice wavered.
He didn’t answer. He paced instead, muttering, jaw clenched tight. The anger twisted him, made him blind to everything else. When he shoved a stool aside, the crash echoed through the room.
That sound broke her.
“Prince!” she cried again.
He turned, breath heaving, and in that frozen moment, he saw her—really saw her. Saw how pale she looked. How her hand trembled against the table. How frightened she seemed.
His anger dissolved instantly.
“Granny…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
She managed a weak smile and reached for him. “Son,” she whispered, “remember what I told you. Don’t let the past control you.”
He helped her sit, guilt burning in his chest like a wound.
That night, her cough worsened. By morning, she couldn’t rise from bed.
By sunset, she was gone.
End of Flashback
- Writer
