My Mother-In-Law Threw A Heavy Vase At My Head On Moving Day, But The Shattered Pieces Exposed What She Was Really Hiding.

The prison was cold.

Sterile.

Depressing.

We were led to the medical wing.

Evelyn was in a private room.

She looked terrible.

Thin. Pale. Weak.

Her hair was gone.

Her skin was gray.

She was hooked up to machines.

She looked up when we came in.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Mark.

"Mark," she whispered.

Her voice was barely audible.

"Mom," Mark said. His voice was tight.

He walked over to her bedside.

I stayed back.

Near the door.

I didn't want to get close.

I didn't want to touch her.

Evelyn reached out a trembling hand.

Mark hesitated.

Then he took it.

"I'm sorry," Evelyn whispered. "For everything. I'm so sorry."

Tears rolled down her face.

"I was sick," she said. "I was obsessed. I couldn't help myself. I loved you so much. Too much. And I couldn't stand the thought of anyone else having you. Especially her."

She looked at me.

"I'm sorry," she said to me. "For everything I did to you. For trying to hurt you. For trying to destroy your marriage. You didn't deserve it. You're a good wife. A good mother. Mark was lucky to find you."

I nodded.

I didn't say anything.

I didn't forgive her.

I would never forgive her.

But I could acknowledge her apology.

"I love you, Mark," Evelyn said, turning back to her son. "I always have. Even when I was wrong. Even when I was terrible. I loved you. And I love my grandson. And your daughter. Even though I never got to know her."

She squeezed his hand.

"Tell them I'm sorry," she said. "Tell Daniel I'm sorry. Tell him I loved him. In my own way. Tell him I hope he has a wonderful life. That he's happy. That he's safe."

She closed her eyes.

"I'm tired," she whispered. "I'm so tired."

Mark stood up.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

"Goodbye, Mom," he said.

Evelyn smiled.

A small, sad smile.

"Goodbye, my son," she whispered.

We left.

We didn't look back.

A week later, Evelyn died.

She went peacefully.