Now that everything had blown up, Leah no longer bothered to keep up the facade. She didn't even pretend to be civil.
Instead, she flooded social media with endless videos, at least eight hundred of them, showcasing Charles's picture-perfect little family.
Charles played with his son.
Charles taught the boy how to write.
Charles tenderly supported his pregnant mistress as they took a leisurely stroll.
And the captions, overflowing with joy, cut deeper than any blade.
[Daddy took the little one out for another fun trip!]
[My precious grandson is starting first grade this year! He even pouted and begged his dad for help with homework!]
[My son and daughter-in-law.]
The content was no different from what the paparazzi had captured, just ordinary, heartwarming family moments.
Yet, to me, they burned like salt on an open wound.
After a long silence, I finally left a comment beneath one of the posts.
[If she's your daughter-in-law, then who is the person listed as your son's spouse?]
The comment vanished almost instantly.
Seconds later, a 60-second voice message arrived from Leah.