I Buried My Son, You Pampered Your Mistress

James Laurent erupted in anger when our sixyearold son accidentally tripped and crushed a rose in the garden.

He ordered the boy to be locked inside the garden walls, demanding that he replant 999 roses.

He didn't know our son had been stung by a bee and was now lying on the lawn in convulsions.

I knelt before the iron gate, tears streaming down my face as I pleaded desperately.

"James, please! Look at Noah! He's been stung by a bee and he's allergic! Open the gate before he goes into shock and dies!"

James, holding his childhood sweetheart, Greta Adler, in his arms, stared down at me with a cold, unwavering gaze.

"Evelyn, as I've said before, this garden is meant exclusively for Greta! No outsiders are allowed!"

"You've spoiled Noah too much, letting him run wild. Now a few stings and he can't handle it? That allergy of his, it's just your indulgence!"

Greta scoffed in disdain. "Evelyn, spoiling your kid too much messed him up. Do you know how many flowers he destroyed? He needs to be taught a lesson.”

Then the two of them walked away, arms linked.

All I could do was swing a rusty shovel at the gate repeatedly, but it was in vain.

I could only watch helplessly as the bruises on my son's body spread, his movements slowed and he eventually fell silent.

I sank to the ground, pleading in despair for him to wake up, to call out to me once more. But he remained still.

An hour later, I finally managed to break open the gate.

Just then, James posted a sonogram photo on social media.

"Another precious life worth protecting. Thank you, @Greta_Adler."

My heart went cold. I left signed divorce papers on the study desk and arranged for the funeral home.

Then, I left a comment on the post.

“Wishing your love child a safe and healthy life.”

——

Moments later, James called.

His furious voice shattered the silence of the funeral home

“Evelyn, what the hell was that supposed to mean?”

"Greta and I have known each other since childhood. She got pregnant unexpectedly … of course I’m going to help her!"

“And the garden? You broke in, took Noah and ruined the lawn? You and your son really have a knack for ruining things, don’t you?”

“I won’t let this slide. Bring Noah back and replant every single one of those 999 roses! Otherwise, don’t even dream of stepping into the Laurents’ house again!”

I lowered my gaze. My hands were red and swollen from hitting the gate so hard. My chest was tight and numb.

Not far away, the mortician was carefully removing the bee sting that killed my son.

"James, Noah's dead. I’m never going back to that house!"

The line went quiet for a moment, then he let out a bitter laugh. "Evelyn, you're unbelievable. Still trying to win sympathy? Now you're cursing your own son?"

I heard a soft gasp from a woman on the other end of the line, leaving me speechless.

I recalled the sonogram photo. James and his new partner were expecting a child. Whether our son lived or died, it didn’t seem to matter to him.

I inhaled shakily. "James, I left the signed divorce papers in the study. Once you sign them, you and your precious childhood sweetheart can be together forever."

As I finished speaking, two frail elderly figures entered, leaning on their canes. "Where's our Noah? What happened to him?"

Seeing my son's grandparents, who had truly loved him I finally let the tears I’d been holding back fall. I collapsed into Mrs. Laurent's arms.

"Grandpa, Grandma ... I’ve failed as a mother. I couldn’t protect Noah. I allowed him to suffer so much before he passed."

Mrs. Laurent and I wept together. Mr. Laurent forced himself forward, glanced down and eventually, two silent tears slid down his face

"Didn't I tell them to clear out all the beehives near the villa? I even arranged for patrols! Where did these bees come from that stung my precious grandchild and triggered his allergy?!"

"It must be that bastard's private garden, right?!"

I forced a bitter smile. James knew full well about our son's bee allergy. He had even flattened the villa’s garden and poured concrete over it just to prevent accidents.

But when Greta returned, he became a different person.

Not only did he let Greta replant flowers and greenery, he also let her raise bees, saying it was all in the name of 'returning to nature.

When I brought up our son's allergy again, James lazily said, "I'll put up a fence. That way, the kid can't get in and there's no danger."

Fences might stop people, but how could they stop flying bees?

In an instant, memories of my son's painful struggle before he died flooded back.

I couldn’t break through the damned iron gate … I could only watch as he collapsed on the lawn, convulsing until he stopped moving.

When he died, his little body was stiff, covered in angry red welts, his eyes still clinging to life.

I couldn't accept it, so I held him tight and asked the mortician to cover those dreadful scars.

As if by doing so, my dear boy who once called me "Mommy" with his innocent voice might return.

As if he hadn't endured such unbearable suffering. As if he might wake up any moment.

Yet it was just a foolish hope.

The mortician finished covering the final rash, set down his pen and approached me with a solemn expression.

“Ma’am, your child is ready. He’s ready to begin his journey now.”

Only then did I realize the call had never ended and James' mocking voice echoed through the line.

“Evelyn, are you seriously playing the grieving heroine again? First, you drag Grandpa and Grandma into your act and now you're getting someone to say the child is ready to ‘begin his journey’? Don’t tell me you’re still at the funeral home?”

I was exhausted and didn’t want to argue anymore. “Yes, the child is at the funeral home. If you hurry, you can still see him one last time.”

I didn’t expect him to sneer:

“Evelyn! Do you have no shame? It’s just a bee sting! If he were really allergic, the hospital would've handled it! Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for this?”

“Like mother, like son! No wonder the little brat’s been lying and acting like a spoiled child recently!”

Mr. Laurent couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed the phone and shouted angrily, “Bastard! Are you still with that vixen right now? Get over here now!”

Right after, he clutched his chest and slammed the phone down.

Mrs. Laurent rushed to help, but Mr. Laurent weakly pushed her away, sobbing.

“A cursed family! The grandson you raised says that even if Noah is really dead, it doesn’t matter, because that vixen still has another one in her belly and it’ll be even more obedient! Bastard!”

Grandma froze. Her teary, clouded eyes filled with pain. She looked at me with grief and pleaded.

“Evelyn, don’t listen to his nonsense. We only accept the child you gave birth to.”

“Don’t worry, your grandpa and I will go home right now, kick that vixen out and bring that guy here to kneel and apologize to you!”

A wave of bitterness rose in my throat. I shook my head. “Grandma, it’s fine. Since James has already turned away, I’ll just leave with Noah.”

“I’ve been tired for too long. I think … it’s time to go.”

The two elders stood there, speechless, staring at me.

We stood there, in front of the cremation furnace, mourning all night. When the staff finally handed me the small box containing my son’s favourite toy, it felt like my heart was being crushed.

I placed the box carefully, then rushed out, barely able to breathe and took a cab back home.

My son’s belongings lay untouched in that cold room. I would never leave them for James, the man who had never truly loved him.

But the moment I opened the door, I was assaulted by the loud, jubilant noise.

“Wow, Greta’s amazing! She’s carrying James’s little princess now!”

The whole house was decorated in pink. James and Greta’s friends were all toasting.

Someone mocked me, waving the divorce papers I had left behind like a victory flag. “James, that bitch at your house actually has some guts, divorcing you and even saying she’ll leave with nothing.”

“She must be out of her mind! A poor woman trying to take the kid? Doesn’t she know her place?”

“Tsk, if it were me, I’d let her take him! What kind of child is that? He smells of poverty. Taking him out would just be embarrassing for James!”

“Exactly! Let Greta have him! She’ll give birth to a real heir for the Laurent family!”

The crowd burst into laughter. I opened the door, stepped inside and suddenly everything went silent.

James looked at me with cold indifference, tightening his grip on Greta as if I were invisible.

"Who cares about being a ‘young master’? My daughter will be just as good.”

"Greta and I had begun her education before she was even born."

As he spoke, he placed a small model airplane on Greta’s rounded belly."

I recognized it immediately. It was my son’s favorite toy, the first model he’d ever built with James.

Even after I bought him better, more expensive toys, he clung to that little plane every night … because it smelled like his father.

Now, the father he loved most was giving that precious toy to someone else’s child.

I couldn’t hold it anymore. I rushed forward, my voice breaking in pain, “James! Our son is dead and you’re already doing this? How could you?!”

The air around James grew cold instantly. Then, without warning, he slapped me across the face. “Evelyn, still bringing up his death? Are you addicted to acting?”

I couldn’t move fast enough to avoid it, so my head hit the corner of a table and warm blood trickled down.

And my son’s most cherished toy plane was heartlessly crushed under James’s heel.

“It’s just a toy! What’s wrong with giving it to his sister? Is this how you raise a kid?”

“You couldn’t even grow a rose properly and left a mess. Now, you and your little brat think you can stand up to me?!”

As I looked at his disgusting face, all I could think of was the unimaginable pain my son had endured before his death. I wanted to drag this man to our son’s grave, make him kneel and force him to apologize!

But then, my son’s comforting words from that afternoon echoed in my ears.

“Mommy, don’t cry. Don’t blame Daddy. It’s Noah’s fault. Noah can take it!”

“But Daddy was kind of mean. I fell and he didn’t help me. He even yelled at me. If he does it again, I won’t talk to him!”

“Mommy, next time, let’s both ignore Daddy, okay?”

I closed my eyes, swallowed the agony in my chest and spoke slowly, forcing the words out.

"You’re right. I’ve failed as a mother. I don’t deserve to be part of your Laurent Family. Sign the divorce papers. This is over, James. We’re done!”

James looked at me, a cruel smirk on his lips.

"You want me to sign the divorce papers? Fine! Get on your knees, apologize to Greta and admit you ruined everything! You spoiled that kid, let him wreck her garden and destroyed the party!”

“When she’s happy, I’ll sign it.”

At the sound of his words, Greta straightened up and shot me a mocking look, her eyes full of contempt.

The others perked up, their greedy eyes fixed on me, as some of them began placing bets.

"I’ll bet 100 bucks she won’t kneel. She actually thought she could challenge Greta? She’s completely lost it."

"She’s probably going to cry and beg James to forgive her. That fakedead kid might show up too and both of them are begging together."

Without a second thought, I forced myself up and slammed my forehead to the floor, desperate to show my submission. "I’m sorry! I was wrong!"

The broken toy plane jabbed into my forehead and blood spilled out, but I felt nothing … numb to the world around me. I continued to kneel and bow, again and again, but I never reached the end.

Every time I moved forward, Greta laughed cruelly and took a step back, as if she were playing with a dog, forcing me to crawl in endless circles.

The crowd’s tone around me slowly changed from entertained to worried.

"James, Greta, maybe it’s enough? She’s bleeding heavily. What if something terrible happens to her?"

"Yeah, look at her lips … she’s so pale. What if she dies here?"

"Honestly, if she’s leaving, now’s the perfect time. James, it’s time you give Greta her rightful title."

I stopped and glanced back. Blood from my forehead had left a long, shocking streak.

I wasn't planning to stop. Just as I was about to kneel once more …

James kicked me down mercilessly and threw the signed divorce papers at me.

"Enough! I signed it! Stop pretending! You’re pathetic. Do you really think I wouldn’t divorce you?"

"Take your kid and leave! But remember, if you walk out that door, your son won’t see a penny from me!"

"Don’t even think I’ll ever acknowledge you two again!"

I had lost so much blood that standing felt like an impossible task. But I forced myself to rise, grabbing the divorce papers with trembling hands.

James glared at me, his gaze burning into me. I turned to the last page, checked the signature and allowed myself a bitter smile.

"Fine. I’ll go pack my son’s things and take him with me."

I turned and walked into my son’s room, feeling the weight of the moment.

As soon as the door closed, the chaos outside went quiet. I leaned against the door and my vision blurred with tears.

My son’s small blanket was still rumpled. The fairy tale book we didn’t finish reading last night was still on the bedside table.

It felt like any moment, he would jump out of the wardrobe pretending to be a ghost to scare me.

I wiped away my tears and grabbed a suitcase from the wardrobe to pack my son's things.

His clothes, toys, books and the little crafts he made in kindergarten … I packed them one by one, laughing and crying. Then I found a small drift bottle.

Inside was a yellowed piece of paper. I opened it and froze. It was an IOU note between James and our son.

When our son was three and super clingy, he insisted on sleeping with me every night. James, frustrated, would sneak in halfway through the night, carry me back to our room and mutter.

"This is ridiculous. I gave birth to a jealous little rival!"

"Honey, I miss you too. Can't you spend more time with me?"

But before he could go far, our chubby little boy would wake up, chase after him and hit him with his little fists, yelling that he was “stealing mommy.”

Then they had no choice but to make a deal: one night each. If either of them wanted an extra night, they had to write an IOU.

James had plenty of tricks to win our son over and eventually, he had a pile of IOUs.

Our son kept asking for them back, but James always came up with some excuse to avoid it.

After Greta returned from abroad, I started sleeping with our son more often. I thought he'd be happy, but instead, he became quieter with each passing day.

"Mommy, did you and Daddy have a fight? He hasn’t come to see me in a long time."

He pulled me toward the master bedroom, knocked on the door and said he wrote an IOU so Daddy would sleep with Mommy.

But when I opened the door, there was Greta … lying weak and flushed on the bed.

The painful memory hit me again and my heart ached. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. With shaking hands, I opened my son’s last note, written in his messy, childlike handwriting.

“I want Mommy and Daddy to take me to Disneyland to watch the fireworks!”

This was a wish my son had been talking about since the start of the year, but James kept canceling the appointment because of Greta and up to now, it still hadn’t happened.

But now, he’d missed his chance forever.

Fighting back regret, I booked plane tickets for the next afternoon and packed the suitcase.

Before I knew it, I had curled up on my son's small bed, trying to catch the last bit of his scent.

My tired mind drifted off to sleep. In the middle of the night, I woke up to strange noises.

When I opened my eyes in confusion, I saw James and Greta kissing.

"James, weren’t we just here to figure out how to turn this room into a princess room? Why are you getting so touchy?"

I quickly sat up. James gave me a taunting look without stopping what he was doing.

Greta gazed at me with playful eyes, "Evelyn, don’t be mad. We just want Noah to get used to the idea of having a little sister. After all, they’ll grow up together."

"Can’t the five of us just live happily as one big family?"

They were shamelessly tangled on my son's bed. My stomach churned and my head felt hot.

James saw me shaking with anger. Instead of feeling sorry, he confronted me instead.

"Evelyn, I checked everything. Your son didn’t go to the hospital for an allergy that day. Where did you hide him?"

"Enough! Keep this up and I’ll really leave you both!"

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw up right on both of them.

James froze. Greta's face changed as she clutched her stomach in pain.

"James … my stomach … it really hurts … "

Panicked, James grabbed her, knocking me over in the process. "If something happens to the baby, your son will pay for it!"

Once again, I was the only one left in the room. I stood up quietly, grabbed my suitcase and walked out.

The sky was still dark and the street was empty. The cold night wind cut through my collar, making me shiver. With each step, dizziness from blood loss hit me, but I kept going.

Finally, at dawn, I reached the cemetery.

The burial plot I bought for my son that morning had an empty coffin. I knelt next to it, opened the suitcase and put his favorite things inside, one by one.

Only the spot for the urn was left.

I looked at the urn in my hands and imagined holding my son.

"After Mommy shows you the world, we’ll come back here to rest. Okay?"

At the hospital, James stayed with Greta through a whole night of tests. Once the doctor confirmed her baby was fine, he finally sighed in relief.

He sat outside the exam room, rubbing his temples. The vomit on his clothes was dry, but the smell stayed.

In the past, he would’ve dragged Evelyn out and yelled at her. But this time, he felt a strange fear.

He realized his son’s things were gone. And Evelyn’s face was full of sorrow.

At that moment, Mr. Carson, the housekeeper who took care of the grandparents, rushed over. James waved his hand in frustration. “Mr. Carson, if you're here to lie to me again about my son’s death, just shut up. I won’t believe it.”

Mr. Carson’s face was full of mixed emotions and sorrow. He bowed respectfully. “Sir, this time it’s not about Noah. Mr. Laurent has been hospitalized after suffering heart attacks. If you’re free, please come and see them.”

James rushed to the ICU. As he pushed open the door, a glass cup flew toward him and shattered against the doorframe.

Mr. Laurent, wearing an oxygen mask, glared at him as if he wanted to tear him apart.

“You beast who killed your own son! How dare you show your face here? Get out!”