My slap seemed to ignite his anger. “Can’t you be over with it? Yes, she's been good to me. So what? I never forced her to. She did it of her own will.”
“Now, where’s the damn berries?” he yelled.
I didn't say anything, just holding the death certificate in my hand. He seemed to have reached the end of his patience and stepped forward to snatch the death certificate from my hands, viciously tearing it into tiny pieces.
He glared at me, frustration and impatience etched on his face. With a sudden burst of rage, he lunged forward and snatched the death certificate from my grasp, ripping it viciously into tiny shreds. The pieces of paper fell to the ground like confetti.
“I'm so sick of your act!” he spat, his words dripping with venom. He slammed the door shut and left.
Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as I gathered all the torn pieces of paper. Each shred felt like a piece of my shattered heart, fragmented by the harsh reality I couldn't escape. With trembling hands, I painstakingly pieced the death certificate back together, methodically aligning the edges and securing them with tape. As I worked, a mixture of grief, anger, and determination fueled my movements.