How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Emile still looked thin, the effects of chemotherapy leaving him pale and frail. He always wore a knitted beanie to cover his head.

When Elodie arrived, she found him out on the balcony, soaking up the afternoon sun.

She couldn't help but remember her own early days of chemo-the weakness, the hollowed cheeks. For a moment she drifted, lost in the memory, before snapping back and holding out two carefully wrapped gifts. "Happy birthday, Uncle. These are fromand Jarrod." For Emile, she had hunted down a rare physics book-something specific to his field that had taken her ages to find.

Once, her uncle had been a renowned physics professor, respected in academic circles and beloved by generations of students. He'd dedicated his life to science, and if not for the events of years past, he might have been as esteemed as Professor Charlie himself.

The other gift, chosen on Jarrod's behalf, was a luxury fountain pen. It had cost over a thousand dollars-practical for her uncle and very much in line with Jarrod's taste.

"Is Mr. Silverstein busy?" Emile asked with a cheerful smile as he accepted the gifts.

Elodie nodded, seizing the excuse. "Yeah, it's the end of the year. He's swamped." She knew all too well that, now they were divorcing, convincing Jarrod to play along and help her explain things to her grandmother and uncle was nearly impossible. He'd never loved her, and he saw dealing with her family as nothing but a pointless chore.

"Just you?" Rosemary called from the kitchen, glancing toward the front door. Seeing no one else, she shook her head in mild disappointment and set a dish of sweet-and-sour ribs on the table. "Well, it's just us then. Let's enjoy a quiet family dinner." Guilt pricked at Elodie. Her life was in shambles, and her grandparents and uncle worried about her constantly. Worse, neither of them had ever received the respect from Jarrod they deserved. He wouldn't even show up in person to explain the divorce.

She couldn't bring herself to tell them the truth. After all, Jarrod's affair was with the daughter of the very woman who had once stolen her mother's research and smeared her mother's reputation. If her grandmother and uncle learned this, they'd be furious.

She needed Jarrod to step up and help her out of this mess-but that seemed more hopeless by the day.

"Mr. Silverstein manages so many companies. Being busy at year's end is normal. The birthday isn't a big deal," Emile said, patting her shoulder in reassurance.

Rosemary brought Elodie a bowl of nourishing chicken broth. "You're the one living with Jarrod. Don't worry aboutand your uncle. We don't care about fancy gestures or gifts. As long as he treats you well, that's all that matters." Emile frowned, concern clouding his features. "You haven't looked well lately. Are you feeling alright? Have you seen a doctor?" He'd noticed the changes. Elodie used to go without makeup, but lately she hid behind a polished facade. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but her face seemed alarmingly thin.

Elodie hesitated, searching for the right words. She wasn't ready to tell them about her diagnosis-she could only buy time. "I'm fine. Just busy adjusting to a new job, that's all. Really, don't worry." Emile remained unconvinced, and Rosemary, catching on, began piling more food onto Elodie's plate. "Is it just the stress? Don't ever feel like you have to bend over backwards for Jarrod's family. Worst case, I'll sell this place and give you the money to invest in your own future. You'll always havebacking you up." Her grandmother's house was worth a fortune now, easily over ten million. No matter what happened with the Silversteins, her granddaughter would be just fine.

Elodie's eyes stung with sudden tears. She shook her head. "Please, you and Grandpa made this house a home. It should never be sold. It means too much." Rosemary squeezed her hand, her eyes soft with love, and let the matter drop. After dinner, Elodie decided to stay overnight. She barely paused to rest, diving right back into organizing her project files.

Her phone buzzed—a barrage of messages from Alexander. Nearly ten in a row, including a collage of photos and several candid shots of men and women at dinner.

The screenshots were from Sylvie's social media. Her caption: "Happiness, made real."

The collage showed a lively dinner: restaurant interiors, gourmet dishes, and one striking photo of a glamorous woman chatting with Jarrod. There were also several photos of just Sylvie and Jarrod together-three, in fact, of them alone. Alexander messaged: [Last time, Jarrod used his contacts to bring Sylvie along to a dinner with me. That's when she addedonline. What do you think-are they flaunting their relationship now?] Alexander: [Aren't you two still not officially divorced? They're not even bothering to hide it anymore?] Elodie recognized the elegant woman beside Jarrod as Sylvie's mother, Selma. Years ago, Selma had been the recipient of her mother's help. Now, she radiated wealth and confidence.

No wonder Jarrod had insisted he was too busy to cto her uncle's birthday dinner. He'd chosen instead to meet his future mother-in-law-his priorities could not have been clearer. In the photos, Jarrod looked at Sylvie with a soft gaze and a faint, unmistakable smile. When their eyes met, the affection was obvious.

Elodie's mind went blank as she realized, with a bitter chuckle, that in three years of marriage, she and Jarrod had never even taken a single photo together-other than the one on their marriage license. Jarrod hated taking pictures. On their anniversaries, when she'd asked for a photo, he'd always brushed her off, saying it was pointless.

But with Sylvie, he was relaxed-even indulgent. He seemed to enjoy documenting every little moment of their ttogether.