Marrying My Divorced Husband's Uncle as Revenge

I gripped Allen’s small hand as we stood outside Disneyland, the lights shining brighter than his tired little eyes. This was his fourth birthday, and it was all he wanted—to see the castle, to ride the carousel, to be somewhere magical, even just for tonight. I’d begged Brendon to come, to be here for Allen, but my calls went straight to voicemail. When Allen looked up at me, eyes hopeful, he asked, “Will Daddy be here soon, Mommy?”

I swallowed the knot in my throat, forcing a smile. “Maybe, sweetheart. Let’s have fun for now.”

Allen didn’t need to know that his father, Brendon Green—the powerful, feared man everyone respected—was nowhere to be found on the night his son needed him most. Tonight was about Allen, and I was going to make it as magical as possible. I lifted him into my arms, and we entered the park together.

For hours, I watched Allen’s joy light up with every carousel turn and parade float. His laughter was quiet, but pure, filling my heart with warmth and breaking it all at once. His tiny fingers clung to my arm as fireworks exploded overhead. I held him close, feeling his heartbeat.

But I knew it was almost time. I felt his grip weaken as the night deepened. Just before midnight, he slipped away, his small body still in my arms, his final breath soft and gentle against my cheek. I stayed there, holding him as the world kept moving, and in that moment, my world shattered.

In the days that followed, I arranged the funeral myself, contacting the cemetery, gathering what little I could bear to part with for his burial. I had tried calling Brendon again and again, my desperation turning to anger with each unanswered ring. By the time I laid Allen to rest, the silence from Brendon was deafening.

The morning of the burial, as I stood beside Allen’s small grave, I dialed Brendon’s number one more time. It rang and rang, echoing in the silence of the cemetery, until finally his voicemail picked up.

“Brendon… damn you for not picking up the phone and not coming for your son. I hope… I hope you’ll regret this one day.” I held back tears, trying to keep my composure as I looked down at the small mound of earth that now covered my son. “Goodbye, Brendon,” I whispered, and hung up, knowing I wouldn’t call again.

After the burial, as I drove back to our house, my phone buzzed with a notification. My heart raced, hoping it was Brendon—finally reaching out, offering some explanation, anything to acknowledge our son’s life and death. But when I checked my phone, it wasn’t a message from Brendon. Instead, it was a post from my sister, Karylle.

The photo she’d shared showed her smiling under the city lights, looking carefree and happy. Brendon stood beside her, his arm draped around her shoulders, his gaze warm. My chest tightened as I read the caption: “Thank you, Brendon, for a wonderful night. You always know how to make me feel special.”

A second later, another notification flashed on my screen. It was a message from Karylle herself—a photo attachment. My fingers shook as I opened it. There they were again, smiling against a sparkling backdrop, Brendon looking more relaxed than he ever had with me.

The world went silent. My hands trembled as I stared at the photo, each word a knife twisting deeper. While I’d held our son through his last breaths, Brendon had been out with my own sister.