Ashes and Anthems
Even my own son and daughter-in-law were there, smiling as they called her Mom.
Everyone said I was the lucky one. A washed-up starlet with a scandalous past, married to a world-renowned scientist.
Ten million comments petitioned for my husband to divorce me and rekindle his old flame. A scientist, they said, shouldn't win in his career only to lose at love.
Meanwhile, I was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Chemotherapy had stolen all my hair.
With the clock ticking down, I held one last concert. A final farewell to my fans, dressed in a wedding gown.
The moment I stepped offstage, my breathing stopped. They rushed me to the hospital.
After I died, a tribute video from my most devoted fan of forty years was released. It silenced everyone.
1
I was in a daze as they loaded me onto the ambulance. Voices swam around me.
"She's faking it, right? She knows today is Eleanor's birthday, and Professor Lake planned this huge surprise for her. She's just trying to steal the spotlight. We're not blind."
"I don't know... her lips were completely white. I think she might actually be sick..."
"Oh, please. She could have gotten sick any day of the year, but she picks Eleanor's birthday? Lydia Thornes tactics are as cheap and childish as ever. No wonder Professor Lake never got over his first love. Imagine being married to a woman that vindictive and pathetic for decades. It must have been hell."
"She's sixty years old, for god's sake. Can't she just let it go? The world would be a quieter place for the Lake family if she just died already."
The lights of the operating room were blinding. I couldn't open my eyes.
Anesthesia flowed into my veins, but my mind remained cruelly awake.
Tears, salty as brine, streamed down my face.
A flash of white light. I thought, with a surge of relief, that I was finally free.
But I woke to the sound of my son and his wife arguing by my bedside.
"Mom just had to pull a stunt like this. Dad's entire surprise for Eleanor is ruined," my son, Marcus, spat. "I told you she was a drama queen, always needing to be the center of attention. She cant just stay home, she has to go out and compete with Eleanor. Shes an old woman, why can't she just act her age?"
"Your dad has put up with her for far too long," my daughter-in-law added, her voice sharp. "If I were married to a piece of work like that, I would've divorced her ages ago. Your dad's just too nice. He pitied her, gave her a home, and she started thinking she was some kind of princess everyone had to worship."
I didn't open my eyes. I just listened to the venom from my only son.
The tears soaked my pillow again, hot and bitter.
I knew they resented me.
I just didn't know their resentment had festered into such a deep, obsessive hatred.
Wiping my eyes on the corner of the duvet, I used every ounce of strength I had to sit up.
Seeing me awake, Marcus's face twisted into a scowl. He jabbed a finger at me.
"Mom, I'm serious," he said, his voice thick with blame. "If you need money, just ask. It's not like we're starving you. But you go out and make a public spectacle of yourself, pulling these cheap tricks. What are people supposed to think? That we're broke?"
"Dad is a world-famous scientist. He's dedicated his whole life to his work. The least you could do is be a supportive wife, but all you do is embarrass him. Is it any wonder he prefers Eleanor? You should take a good, long look at yourself, Mom."
"Is it so hard to just stay home and be the perfect professor's wife?"
The words to defend myself died in my throat.
All I could manage was a faint, whispered, "...Okay."
I don't have long left.
Soon, they'll be free of me. They can finally call Eleanor "Mom," just like they've always wanted.
My daughter-in-law slipped a gold chain from her wrist and tossed it onto the bed with a look of disgust.
She barely glanced at me. "Mom, seriously, stop the drama. My father-in-law finally managed to get some time off, and you've ruined it all. You don't want to be kicked out of the house after forty years of marriage and become a laughingstock, do you?"
"Here," she said, nodding at the chain. "Sell this. It should get you a decent amount. You're an old woman, you need to stop throwing money around. I won't call you shameless, but you can't stop what other people will say."
My hand trembled as I picked up the chain.
It was a family heirloom I had given her on her wedding day.
It wasn't worth much, but it was my symbol of acceptance.
Clearly, my acceptance means nothing to them anymore.
Marcus took his wife's hand. "We're busy, Mom," he said, his voice laced with irritation. "Once your IV drip is finished, just go home."
And they left.
A moment later, my assistant, Tina, burst in, her face alight with joy.
"Lydia! The research lab overseas contacted us! They said you can be in the first group for the clinical trial! You have a chance!"
"No, thank you."
2
"What did you say?" Tinas eyes widened.
I offered her a soft, serene smile. "I said, no, thank you. Give the spot to someone who needs it more. I don't want to waste it."
"But, Lydia..."
"There are no buts," I said, beckoning her closer. "Tina, my dear, when I'm gone, I need you to burn all my records for me. I plan on launching a singing career in the afterlife, you know."
Tears welled in Tina's eyes as she sniffled.
"Lydia, I'm begging you. Let's just go try the new treatment. If not for yourself, then think about your fans. Look"
She handed me her phone, and I saw the comments section under my social media page.
I debuted forty years ago. My fans were older now, too.
They didn't know how to do PR spin or post glamorous photos. All they left were simple blessings and likes.
[Lydia, I've been listening to your music for forty years. Please take care of yourself. You've made it this far, and I know you're strong enough to ignore all the vicious rumors. We've seen your strength all these years.]
[Because you once said men who study medicine are handsome, I went from being a dropout to reenrolling, getting into medical school, and eventually earning my PhD. I'm a doctor now because of you. You changed my life. Let them say what they want. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters to us fans.]
[A concert after twenty years. It brings back so many memories. Its like my youth is alive again. Keep fighting, Lydia!]
I smiled faintly.
Then I clicked on the "Trending Topics" banner at the top of the page.
Professor Nick Lake Proposes to First Love, Spurned Wife Lydia Thorne Fakes Collapse at Concert to Steal Thunder
Lydia Thorne: The Mad Queen in the Cold Palace. Was Her Concert Collapse Real or a Desperate Ploy for Attention?
Petition to Divorce Lydia Thorne Reaches 15 Million Signatures. Will Her Antics Finally End Her Marriage?
It was a bloodbath.
[Even someone as patient as Professor Lake can't stand Lydia Thorne. It just proves all the rumors about her are true: shes a diva, cheated on him with producers, has a nasty temper, sabotaged other artists, lied about her education, a pathological liar... Any one of those would get you canceled. She's guilty of all six. If it weren't for the Professor's reputation, she would've been doxxed into oblivion by now.]
[Any assassins here who also hate Lydia Thorne? [praying hands emoji] Next time you're on a job, could you swing by the hospital and pull her breathing tube?]
[I wish I could go back in time and un-exist her. Why does she even exist? God, just take her already.]
Tina snatched the phone away, hiding it behind her back. Her smile was strained. "Lydia, people online are just full of hate. Don't pay them any mind."
Just then, the door to my room was thrown open.
A woman in a sharp black pantsuit stood there, leaning against the frame, catching her breath.
"Lydia," she said. "Come with me to the Arctic. Let's go see the Northern Lights."
Her eyes were intense. "This world is a toxic mess. Just leave it all behind. Come with me. Please?"
3
The day I was discharged from the hospital, our house was strung with fairy lights.
Fireworks exploded over the roof of the villa, painting the night sky in brilliant colors.
Tina pushed my suitcase behind me, pouting. "Professor Lake is really something else. So this is why he didn't visit you in the hospital. He was planning a birthday surprise for you. About time he did something right for once."
I paused, then gave a small, self-deprecating laugh.
When did I stop celebrating my birthday?
Right after I married Nick Lake.
I pushed the door open.
The lively chatter inside instantly died.
When they saw me, the smiles on their faces froze.
It was the crew from the reality show.
So, they were filming Nick's show here. At my home.
There were cakes and "Happy Birthday" banners everywhere.
I picked up a small slice of cake and started to head toward the garden, but the show's producer stopped me.
"Ms. Thorne, I'm sorry, you can't go in there. We're filming."
I didn't break my stride, just offered him a gentle smile over my shoulder. "But isn't this all for me? You can't very well film without the guest of honor, can you?"
With that, I reached the garden entrance.
In that instant, the cheerful strains of "Happy Birthday" ended, and a massive firework shot into the air.
"To my darling little Gigi," Eleanor Vance cooed, holding a small poodle in her arms and twirling around. "Happy birthday, my sweet baby. May all your days be filled with joy and full food bowls."
Nick stood nearby, a Polaroid camera in his hand, his eyes filled with a tender adoration I had never seen before as he snapped picture after picture.
But I remembered.
Nick had once told me his hands were only for the lab. Asking him to even fold a shirt was an insult to his genius.
So I did everything. I washed his underwear by hand, prepared three meals a day, drank on his behalf to secure funding, and smoothed things over with his superiors. I even spoon-fed him and washed him when he was too preoccupied.
One time, I asked him to turn off the light before bed, and he flew into a rage. "What do you have hands and feet for? If you're not going to use them, I'll cut them off."
At sixty years old, Nick could still burn a pot of water trying to boil an egg.
Eleanor lifted the poodle up, placing it in his arms.
He took it with exquisite care, as if handling the most precious jewel in the world.
But what about my dog?
My little dog, who Nick beat to death ten years ago because he was supposedly allergic to dog hair.
I came home from a tour to find nothing but a pool of blood on the floor.
My son, Marcus, had taken what was left of him and made a stew. He served it to me with a grin, asking how it tasted.
That was the one time I couldn't contain my fury. I flipped the dining table over.
As punishment, Nick locked me in the dark, damp cellar with the spiders and rats for three whole days. When he finally let me out, I was barely breathing.
My vision blurred. I scrubbed at my eyes.
Marcus, dressed in a tuxedo, placed a tiny crown on the poodle's head, scratching it affectionately.
"Gigi," he cooed. "Call me big brother. I'm your brother now."
A perfect family portrait.
It was broken when my grandson shoved me hard from behind. I stumbled and fell.
The six-year-old boy's eyebrows shot up, and he pointed a finger at me.
"Daddy! The mean grandma is here again!"
4
Suddenly, every eye in the garden was on me.
Tina rushed to help me up, her jaw tight with anger. "What is wrong with you, you little brat? Who taught you such terrible manners?"
My daughter-in-law shrieked and ran over. She shot me a glare before scooping the child into her arms.
"Honestly," she muttered under her breath. "Setting such a terrible example for her own grandson. Picking on a little child."
At that moment, my eyes met Eleanor's across the lawn.
I didn't miss the flicker of triumph in her gaze.
The disgraced versus the glamorous.
After all these decades, our roles had finally reversed.
Once, I was the superstar, married to a handsome, brilliant man on the rise.
Her wealthy husband had gone bankrupt, leaving her with a mountain of debt and a trail of illegitimate children.
She had knelt outside my villa gate in a torrential downpour, begging me to take her in, appealing to our old school ties.
I was no saint. I had no intention of helping her. But Nick was.
The next day, Eleanor moved into my house.
The next year, her belly began to swell.
I was the one who personally forced an abortifacient down her throat. I watched the blood pool on the floor around her, and I laughed, a wild, sharp sound.
That night, Nick flew back from Los Angeles. He slapped me dozens of times, beat me until my bones fractured. They didn't take me to the hospital until dawn.
He pressed his thumb into one of my bruises, his voice a venomous hiss. "Lydia, if you don't learn to obey, you'll die in this hospital."
The memory faded.
I looked at the Eleanor standing before me now.
Her hair was a glossy black, without a single strand of grey, a jade pin nestled in the ends.
A sleeveless silk dress clung to her trim figure, revealing not a hint of a belly.
The diamonds on her ears, neck, wrist, and fingers glittered under the lights, broadcasting her immense wealth.
She smiled elegantly.
"Oh, it's you, dear," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "I didn't expect you. Well, Gigi can't eat all this cake. Would you like a piece?"
She spoke as if she were the lady of the house.
I curled my lip into a smile. "No, thank you. I'm just here to pack my things. And also"
Tina pulled a folder from her bag and slapped it down on the table with a theatrical flourish.
"The divorce papers."
5
At the sight of them, Nick's eyes went wide. The initial shock quickly morphed into pure rage. "Lydia, what new drama is this? It's Gigi's birthday, and we're filming a live show. Do you have to make a scene and humiliate everyone?"
Tina glared right back at him. "Professor Lake, it's just a divorce. There's no need to get so worked up. You don't love her anyway, so what's the big deal?"
"Look at yourself," Nick sneered at me. "You think you're some young starlet? Who's going to want you at your age? Without me, you're nothing!"
My voice was ice. "Nick, I don't need anyone to 'take me in.' And you certainly don't get to control me anymore."
Nick was so furious his glasses trembled on his nose.
Eleanor gently tugged at his sleeve. "Darling, you've always been so impulsive," she murmured, loud enough for the cameras to hear. "The same as you were decades ago. You haven't changed a bit."
"I remember when Nick and I were dating, you were always so jealous. Every time we went on a date, you'd demand he pay you a hundred dollars as 'emotional compensation.' I thought of you as a little sister then. I never imagined you two would end up together. It made things rather awkward for me."
"We're all getting on in years," she finished with a sigh. "We should all know when to behave with a little dignity."
In a few short sentences, she had painted me as the homewrecker.
The live chat exploded.
[OMG, I always felt a little weird shipping the Professor with Eleanor since he's married, but it turns out they were the original couple! This just makes it better! Star-crossed lovers!]
[True love wins! They married other people, but it was just a detour on the long road back to each other. I'm not crying, you're crying.]
[Just sign the papers already! I've been sick of Lydia Thorne forever. Her music's okay, I guess, but her personality is trash. Get this homewrecker out of the entertainment industry and out of the Professor's life!]
Nick nodded curtly, and Marcus immediately understood.
A moment later, Marcus returned from upstairs with a small ring box.
Without a moment's hesitation, Nick strode to the table, signed the papers, then took the wedding ring from the box and hurled it into the nearby lake.
"There, Lydia," he snarled. "You'd better not live to regret this!"
I gave him one last, long, meaningful look.
"I won't."
"I hope you won't either."
I took the signed divorce papers. Before I could even make it to the door, a spray of blood erupted from my mouth.
The world went black, and a piercing ring drowned out all other sound.
Just before I lost consciousness, I heard Nick's voice, dripping with scorn.
"Lydia, what new trick is this? I knew you'd regret it."
Then, Tina's frantic sobs. "Lydia! Lydia, please, just hold on! I'm begging you..."
But I knew.
My flame had finally gone out.
The light above the operating room door switched off.
On camera, the doctor emerged, his expression grave.
"The patient had a terminal illness. You should have been prepared for this day to come."
"Who's the next of kin? You should go in and say your goodbyes."
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