Chapter 5: Secrets of the Evans Family

The Evans family is also a renowned family in Maple Heights.

Their house stood on a rise above the river, a big old colonial with peeling white paint and a porch swing that creaked in the wind. When the riots broke out back then, Marcus’s grandfather didn’t hesitate to open all the family’s food stores to the people. Only then did Maple Heights hold out for ten days, keeping the looters at bay.

The story was town legend. Every kid in school knew about it—how the Evanses saved the town, how the mayor came to shake Grandpa Evans’s hand. Afterwards, for his merits, the mayor granted a hefty sum and a marriage alliance.

Of course, in modern-day America, a "marriage alliance" just meant the families strongly encouraged the match. The bride in the marriage alliance was the city councilman’s daughter, and the groom was the Evans family’s eldest son.

I was well-educated from childhood, taught by my father, and raised to follow every rule.

I attended the best local schools, took piano lessons on Saturdays, volunteered at the library, and learned how to bake a perfect apple pie. I was always the one teachers held up as an example.

Therefore, in my previous life, even though I discovered on my wedding night that Marcus didn’t like me, and although he died suddenly only two months after our marriage,

I never thought of remarrying.

It wasn’t just loyalty. It was pride, duty, a sense that if I let go, I’d be letting down everyone who ever believed in me. Instead, I took on all the household responsibilities alone, hiding my sorrow.

I devoted myself to caring for my mother-in-law, looked after my husband’s younger brother, and managed the family business.

Every Friday, I’d stop by the hardware store to make sure the books balanced. I clipped coupons, cooked dinner for Derek, and sat by my mother-in-law’s side as she watched her favorite soap operas. I married Marcus Evans at seventeen, devoted myself for eight years in exchange for a plaque, and after ten years of toil, what I received was a colossal deception.

The memory of that bronze plaque, polished to a shine and set beneath the town’s old sycamore, made my jaw clench. Even before I died, I still couldn’t let go of my mother-in-law.

But how did they treat me?

I glanced at the crescent moon in the sky, the corners of my lips curling into a cold smile.

The night air was crisp. Somewhere a dog barked, and the breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle up from the garden. I went to Marcus’s memorial room. It was already late at night, and only Derek was still kneeling before the photo and candles.

His eyes were red and swollen from crying.

“Natalie…”

Seeing me arrive, he called softly.

I comfortingly patted his shoulder and wiped away the nonexistent tears on my face with a tissue.

Derek leaned into my touch, seeking comfort, and for a moment I felt a pang of guilt at the mask I wore. At this point, I could confirm that Derek truly didn’t know about this.

At least at this time, he didn’t know.

The next morning, news of the Evans family’s eldest son’s sudden death spread throughout the town.

Word traveled fast in Maple Heights. By lunchtime, Mrs. Bartlett was bringing over a casserole, and the church prayer chain had called twice. Mourners came one after another.

My mother-in-law originally wanted to handle the funeral quietly, but after just one night, it was known all over town.

There was no such thing as privacy in a small town. Especially after she learned that I had written to my father in Chicago to report Marcus’s death to the mayor’s office, she was completely panicked.

“Natalie, how can such a small matter alarm the mayor?”

My mother-in-law’s face was full of panic.

She wrung her hands, her voice quivering. I wiped my tears and said, “Mom, my husband and I were married by the mayor’s decree. Now that my husband has died, of course it must be reported to the mayor. Moreover, my husband’s death was tragic, and only those close to him—like you and me—can identify that it is truly his body. In the future, there’s no guarantee that some con artist won’t impersonate him.”

I watched my mother-in-law’s face grow paler and continued without emotion.

“If it is reported to the mayor, it will be different. In the future, if someone tries to pull a fast one and pretend to be Marcus, it’ll blow up on the whole family.”

My words landed with the heavy finality of a judge’s gavel. After these words, my mother-in-law collapsed completely onto the chair.

She covered her mouth, staring at the carpet, shoulders shaking. I bowed, wiped my tears, and left.