From His Wife’s Replacement to The Woman He Regrets Losing

On the day my mother passed away, I wore a white dress to mourn her.

Seven-year-old Stephen Davis came rushing over, his small hands gripping a sharp pair of scissors. Before I could react, he slashed through the fabric and then dumped an entire bucket of cheap red paint over me.

"Today is my mom’s birthday! Who are you trying to curse by wearing such an unlucky color? She hated white the most!"

Like father, like son, their affections had always belonged to the same person.