Too Late to Beg for Forgiveness

Five years ago, I became pregnant with Michael Johnson's child. By virtue of that pregnancy, I married into the Johnson family.

For five long years, Michael remained distant, his demeanor profoundly cold toward us both.

Three days ago, our son, Andrew, died in a car accident. While Andrew was leaving this world, Michael was in Hokkaido with his childhood sweetheart, fulfilling a promise from their youth.

Three days after Andrew's death, Michael was still absent.

I sat quietly before Andrew's small coffin, dressed in black, my hands folded neatly in my lap. The air was thick with the scent of lilies, and I could hear the wealthy mourners behind me exchanging whispers.

"I heard Mr. Johnson is still in Hokkaido... some traditional crafts exhibition..."

"What a tragedy. Such a lovely boy."

"And Isabella, that daughter-in-law..." the voice dropped to a hushed tone, "didn't she only get to marry in because she was pregnant?​ The Johnsons had always intended for Michael to marry Miss Brown."

"Shh, not so loud. Though it's true, Miss Brown would have been a far more suitable match."

I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to break down in front of my son. Through a film of tears, I stared at his peaceful, sleeping face. My bright-eyed five-year-old boy would never open his eyes again.

"Mr. Johnson's phone is still going straight to voicemail. They're saying a snowstorm took out all communications..."

A snowstorm? Communications down? My nails bit into my palms, drawing half-moon crescents.​

Three days ago, on Andrew's fifth birthday, Michael had taken a call from Sophia Brown. He had said to me, his voice cold, "Sorry. Sophia is waiting for me." And then he had walked away without a backward glance.

And now they claimed he was unreachable?

"That poor child, never really knew a father's love..."

"Shh—"

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over me, and the world went black. The last thing I heard was the sharp crack of shattering porcelain and gasps of alarm.

I awoke in my own bed, my head pounding. Outside the window, the century-old cherry tree in the Johnson estate stood stark and bare, its branches skeletal against the gray sky.

"Andrew..." I whispered my son's name, and the tears came anew.

The memory of three days ago replayed in my mind.

"Papa, can't you please stay for my birthday? You promised we could see the cherry blossoms..." Andrew, dressed in the new clothes I'd bought him, looked timidly at Michael, who was packing a suitcase.

"I told you, I have a prior commitment. Sophia is waiting. The craft exhibition in Hokkaido is important." Michael didn't even glance at his son.

"When will you be back?"

"I'm not sure."

How important could this exhibition be? It was held twice a year, and Michael had missed it before. The only difference this time was Sophia's presence.

"Mama, when will Papa want to be with us?" Andrew had turned to me, his eyes filled with a hope that was already beginning to fracture.

What could I have said? That his father might never want to? That his father had eyes only for Sophia?

The bedroom door creaked open, pulling me from the painful memory. Michael walked in, his handsome face as impassive as ever, carrying the chill of the winter air and the faint, distinct scent of Sophia's jasmine perfume.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, his voice devoid of any real emotion.​

That was all? Just an apology?

I looked at the face I had once loved so desperately, remembering the young man from our university days who would gently lay his coat over my shoulders. The man before me now held no trace of that warmth.

"Did you see him?" My voice was raw from disuse and tears.

"I did." His reply was clipped.

"When he was dying..." My voice trembled uncontrollably. "...he was calling for you."

Michael's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before smoothing into its usual mask of calm. "There was no service where we were. The storm took out the communications tower after we went into the mountains."

Into the mountains? No service?

A bitter laugh threatened to escape my lips. He had answered Sophia's call readily enough three days ago.

"And why were you able to answer Sophia's call then?" I demanded.

His expression tightened. "Isabella, this is not the time for your accusations. You need to keep up your strength. You haven't eaten in days."

He was deflecting, just as he always did. I knew this pattern all too well. A veil of feigned concern to cover his own guilt.

"Answer the question," I insisted, pushing myself up to face him. "Why could you answer her call?"

Michael was silent for a long moment, then his eyes turned steely. "A more pressing question is, what was a five-year-old boy doing near the road alone? How could you let this happen, Isabella? As his mother, you must bear some responsibility for this."

His words were a physical blow. I stared at the man I had once loved, and a coldness seeped into my bones.

"He was looking for you," I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of grief and rage. "He called for you until his voice was hoarse. He begged me to tell him when his father was coming home, and I had no answer! He said he would wait for you on the sidewalk, that you'd promised to see the cherry blossoms with him on his birthday!"

"I made no such promise," Michael stated coldly.

The dizziness returned. He was right. He never had. It was a fantasy I had woven for our son, a beautiful lie.

"I was the one who was wrong..." My voice broke. "I was wrong to believe the gap between our worlds could be bridged. Wrong to fall in love with you. Wrong to think a child would make you love me. Worst of all, I was wrong to bring him into this world, only to suffer from the moment he took his first breath..."

The door flew open with a crash, and Michael's aunt, Harper Johnson, stormed into the room. Dressed in severe black, her face was a mask of fury.

Crack!

A stinging slap landed across my cheek.

"You couldn't even protect one child! What kind of mother are you?" Harper's voice was shrill. "You've brought nothing but shame to the Johnson name!"

I clutched my stinging face as hot tears sprang to my eyes.​ This slap was not just about Andrew's accident; it was the culmination of five years of her contempt for me, the "outsider."

From the day I married into this family, Harper had never missed an opportunity to slight me, implying I was unfit for the Johnson stature. She had always cold-shouldered Andrew, muttering about "impure bloodlines" and "poor upbringing."

I turned to Michael, hoping for even a word of defense. But he merely watched, his expression cold, even annoyed, as if our disturbance was a trivial inconvenience.

This was the man who had once held an umbrella for me in the rain, who had promised to always keep me safe. Now he sat idly by as his family shamed me.

I remembered Andrew's small, confused voice: "Mama, why doesn't Aunt Harper like me? What did I do wrong?"

I remembered how hard he had tried to win the affection of his family, only to be met with indifference.

I remembered every cold glance, every veiled insult I had endured in this house for five years.

A final, fierce anger surged from the depths of my despair.

Slap!

The sound echoed in the room as I rose and struck Harper back with all the strength I had left.

Silence fell. Harper stared at me, her hand flying to her reddening cheek. Even Michael looked up, startled.

"Consider that returned," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "For five years, I have endured your scorn. I tolerated it for myself. But I will not tolerate you speaking ill of my son now that he is gone."

I turned my gaze to Michael, all love and expectation finally extinguished. "Andrew is dead. There is nothing left for me to endure here."