A Journey from Bitterness to Truth

Once Matilda had shut the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief, watching as Logan wolf down his sunny–side–up eggs and crispy bacon.

After tidying up the dishes, she turned to Logan and said, “Next time, you can’t intentionally get yourself sick to get my attention, okay? If you miss me, just have Yvan give me a call. I’ll come by to see you.”

“The only thing you can cook worth a darn are fried eggs.” Logan licked his lips. “Did you practice this a bunch or something?”

Matilda stiffened. How could she explain that she had practiced countless times in the kitchen to perfect Yvan’s odd preference for a medium–cooked egg?

She made up an excuse on the fly. “Your uncle showed me how to do it.”

“Guess Uncle’s the clever one then,” Logan said, nodding his head. “Mommy, your cooking barely scrapes by as edible. I won’t set my expectations too high.”

“You cheeky monkey!” Matilda went over and pinched Logan’s cheek. “Getting feisty now that you’re full, huh?”

While teasing him, a sudden thought struck her. She might have absentmindedly cooked an extra egg. Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

Oh, no!

Standing in Yvan’s familiar kitchen, memories flooded back, leading her to prepare an extra breakfast portion without much thought – including an egg cooked just the way Yvan liked- medium!

Matilda buried her face in her hands. Oh, Heavens. She needed to get rid of that egg,

and fast!

With this thought propelling her, she grabbed Logan’s finished dishes and dashed towards the kitchen downstairs. But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Yvan standing at the dining table, elegantly dabbing at his mouth – the egg was

gone.

Matilda turned ashen. “Yvan, you…”

Yvan said nothing, his gaze landing on Matilda’s pale face. Without a word, he picked up his suit jacket – it was time for work.

Matilda could only stare as Yvan walked out the door, not managing to utter a word

12:49

of explanation. The egg wasn’t specially made for him; it was just a habit.

As Yvan disappeared from sight, Matilda laughed hollowly to herself. Then, tears quietly traced down her cheeks as she slid down the wall next to the staircase, burying her face in her hands once again.

Habit.

Listen to how terrifying yet laughable that word was.

Five years ago, she had desperately sought to please him, and in an instant, their world had crumbled – a dream shattered, the music ended, and the audience departed.

“Yvan, did you know? My dream was for you to enjoy the eggs I made with my own hands, and it took five years for that dream to come true.”

And in between, there was nothing but her own indelible, one–sided devotion.

Matilda had to admit that even in jail, she clung to a last, fragile hope and love.. wishing Yvan would come to her rescue. That foolish thought left her along with the blood she shed on the operating table, nearly dying while carrying their child.

At the depths of despair, she had been dragged back into her cell, her body aching unbearably without anesthesia.

“From then on, Yvan, my fate with you was exhausted. If we couldn’t part on good terms, then it was to be a bitter end!”

When Matilda lifted her head, her tears sparkled with a bitter laughter.

“Yvan, loving you was like enduring purgatory on earth!”