My Dad Chose His Mistress Over My Mom’s Funeral And That Night Changed Everything

Rain had poured relentlessly since dawn as though the heavens shared my grief. I stood motionless, clutching a black umbrella that quivered in the gusts while the coffin carrying my mother sank slowly into the drenched earth.

Everyone around me wept. Everyone except my father.

He wasn’t there to shed a single tear. Instead, he was thousands of miles away in Hawaii, grinning beside his latest lover, their champagne glasses gleaming mid-toast as if rejoicing in my mother’s passing.

When the final clump of soil struck the wooden lid, I forced out a farewell between tight lips. That night, thunder rolled over Portland while I sat alone in my apartment, eyes fixed on fading photographs of her.

Then my phone vibrated.

“I’m not dead. Come to the cemetery now.”

The message came from her number, my mother’s. My throat locked and a chill spread through my hands.

With trembling fingers, I snatched my keys and ran for the car. Pulse thudding wildly, I couldn’t tell if I was heading toward a miracle or straight into madness.

My name is Grace Miller, and until a week ago, I believed my world was ordinary. I lived in a small apartment overlooking the Willamette River, worked as a freelance designer, and had a mom who called every Sunday just to remind me to eat breakfast.

I’d roll my eyes at her texts.

“Take your vitamins sweetheart. Don’t skip dinner again.”

I never imagined I’d long to read them once more. The morning she died began like any other.

I was wrapping up a project when an unfamiliar number flashed on my phone. I almost let it ring out, but a strange instinct made me pick up.

“Is this Miss Grace Miller?”

The caller’s voice trembled.

“I’m calling from Portland General Hospital. I’m so sorry. Your mother passed away this morning. Cardiac arrest.”

I froze. The room spun.

The color drained from everything.

“No,”

I whispered, shaking.

“You’re mistaken. My mom’s fine. She was painting today.”

“I’m sorry,”

the nurse repeated gently. Her words echoed long after the line went dead.

I remember staring out the window, watching the rain carve paths down the glass, my reflection pale as a ghost. My mother, my confidant, my compass, was gone.

And still, somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice insisted something wasn’t right. She’d never had a single issue with her heart.

She stayed active, laughed often, and ate the kind of clean food doctors recommend. How could someone like that simply stop breathing one morning?

When I phoned my father, his voice carried nothing but detachment.

“It’s true,”

he said without emotion.

“Evelyn’s gone. The doctor said it happened fast. That’s all.”

I choked out, anger mixing with disbelief.

“Is that really all you can say?”

He sighed.

“Grace, she’s dead. Cry if you must, but don’t make a scene. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

Then the line went dead. In that instant, grief gave way to fury.

Something deep within whispered that my father wasn’t grieving at all. He was relieved, and that thought chilled me to the core.

Three days passed and still the downpour lingered. It felt as though Portland itself refused to forget her.