Losing a loved one is never easy, and the pain can sometimes linger for years. For me, the passing of my dear mother almost three years ago was a devastating blow that I never saw coming. The suddenness of her departure in a tragic car accident left my sister and me shattered. With our father absent from our lives since my sister was a baby, it had always been just the three of us against the world.
Currently, I live with my fiancé, Ben, whom I’ve been with for over four years now. However, his response to my mother’s death wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for. Ben has always been a straightforward person, not particularly skilled in handling emotions, especially when they are someone else’s negative feelings. This struggle stemmed from the toxic mindset instilled in him during his childhood, where his father believed that displaying emotions was a sign of weakness.
Although Ben now disagrees with that outdated perception and has been estranged from his father for years, the impact of his upbringing still lingers in his reactions. In the aftermath of my mother’s passing, he temporarily moved out of our apartment after less than two weeks, claiming that the weight of the situation was too much for him. He believed that his clumsy attempts at providing comfort would only make things worse. During this difficult time, my sister moved in with me, as we leaned on each other for support.
Initially, I couldn’t help but feel angry and upset with Ben. I didn’t expect him to act as my therapist, but I did expect him to be by my side during the darkest period of my life. Instead, as soon as things became overwhelming, he retreated. However, after a month of separation, he returned to the apartment, eager to have a face-to-face conversation. It was during this meeting that he disclosed his emotional journey to my perspective.
A friend’s girlfriend had voiced her disgust upon learning of Ben’s actions, referring to him as a sociopath. This encounter triggered a period of self-reflection for him. As a result, he began seeing things from my point of view. Initially, I wanted to end our relationship, and my sister agreed with me. However, Ben pleaded for a chance to rectify his mistakes. Consumed by grief, I lacked the energy to argue and fight. To his credit, he took the initiative to seek individual therapy while also committing to couples therapy for both of us. Witnessing his genuine effort to change, I made the difficult decision to give our relationship another chance. Eventually, we got engaged.
Although my sister initially opposed the idea, she eventually acknowledged Ben’s sincere efforts and agreed that staying together was the best choice. She moved out after a month and a half, as our issues with Ben had been resolved. Peace ensued, and we embarked on the journey of planning our wedding. However, little did I know that a shocking revelation awaited me just a few days ago.
Deciding what to do with my mother’s ashes had been a struggle for my sister and me. We briefly considered turning a portion of them into necklaces, but the thought of wearing one brought us both to tears. We also hesitated to scatter the ashes, as my mother didn’t have a specific place she cherished. Splitting the ashes into two urns was another option, but my sister rejected the idea. Consequently, the urn with my mother’s remains ended up in my apartment. Although burying it was a possibility, I found solace in keeping her close, surrounded by pictures in a separate area of my home.
Religion played an important role in my mother’s life. While my sister and I had attended church and prayer meetings during our upbringing, our commitment to religion had dwindled over time, limited to joining her for holidays. Amongst my mother’s belongings, we found a plastic rosary that she cherished. Despite having an extensive collection of ornate rosaries, she opted for the plastic one, fearing that she would lose a fancier edition if she carried it everywhere. To honor her, we placed the plastic rosary inside the urn with her ashes, as we believed she would have appreciated the sentiment.
Recently, my sister called me with an unexpected request. She expressed a desire for the plastic rosary to serve as a memento for both of us. After a lengthy conversation, I agreed. It had been a while since I had directly looked at the urn, so I decided to confront my grief head-on. When I opened the urn upon returning home, my heart sank. Instead of my mother’s remains, I found a larger ziplock bag filled with sand. The rosary lay beside it. In disbelief, I opened and closed the urn multiple times, hoping that my eyes were deceiving me.
Ben arrived home shortly after and caught me in the midst of my distress. The truth spilled out, and I had to confront the unimaginable. He confessed that he had something to do with the urn’s contents. According to his account, several months ago, he became fixated on the idea of deep cleaning the apartment. Fueled by his fastidious nature, he sought to eliminate every trace of dust. Curiously, he fixated on my mother’s memorial area and expressed a desire to clean it thoroughly.
Alarmed by the thought of anyone other than my sister and me touching or rearranging the items there, I insisted on taking care of it myself upon my return. Despite my reassurances, Ben persisted and insisted he could swiftly accomplish the task. However, he abruptly stopped responding to my messages. When I arrived home, I noticed that everything remained unchanged. Ben apologized for his anxious behavior and claimed that he hadn’t touched anything. I shrugged off the incident, assuming it was just wedding-planning stress getting to him.
Gradually, I noticed a shift in Ben’s behavior. It became evident that something was amiss. However, the truth, when it finally surfaced, shattered me. Ben admitted to touching the urn, succumbing to his compulsion for cleanliness. He removed the bag of ashes along with the rosary (albeit inexplicably) and accidentally spilled the ashes onto our carpet. Panicking at the impending arrival, he vacuumed up my mother’s remains, disposing of them in the trash. When I questioned him about failing to return the ashes to the urn, he simply stared at the floor in silence.
In a desperate attempt to rectify his devastating mistake, Ben replaced my mother’s ashes with play sand in a baggie of similar weight. Overwhelmed by guilt, regret, and fear of my reaction, he tearfully confessed his actions, begging for forgiveness. I couldn’t help but be furious. How could he have thought that I would never discover the truth? Did he believe that my overwhelming grief would blind me to the reality?
As I write this, I find myself in a hotel room, estranged from both Ben and my sister. The urn, along with my cherished memories and possessions, remains packed with my belongings. I informed Ben that I needed time and blocked his number. With my sister, I claimed to be busy, unable to face her at the moment. The details of Ben’s story don’t align, and I am terrified to imagine what he might be hiding. All I can think about is where my mother truly is and why he would inflict such pain upon me.
The ashes, resembling coarse fragments, were a tangible connection to my mother, a source of solace and comfort. How could he disregard their significance so callously? I find it difficult to contain my anger towards him. At this moment, all I have left is a baggie of play sand that a child probably urinated in. The heart-wrenching loss of my mother has been compounded by an unexpected betrayal, leaving me shattered and searching for answers.
