I felt his eyes on me. He handed me the phone. “Sarah wants to talk to you.”
Before, I would have thrown the phone across the car. But what was the point anymore?
To David’s surprise, I took the phone, pressing
it to my ear. The screen still held his warmth. I
used to crave his touch, his scent, his voice.
Now, even this brief contact filled me with
revulsion.
Sarah’s voice, as always, was poised and
cheerful. “Chloe, how are you doing?”
I didn’t answer. David’s presence beside me was oppressive, a silent warning that any perceived slight against Sarah would have
consequences. He’d done it before. One snowy night, after I’d called Sarah and warned her to
stay away from my family, he’d flown into a
rage, throwing his phone and kicking me out of
the house. I’d walked for two hours in the
freezing cold, ending up with a week–long
fever. He hadn’t visited me once. It was Liam
who’d stayed by my bedside, his small hand on
my forehead, whispering “Mommy.”
I’d lived for Liam. What would he do without me
in that house?
But now, I was the one without him. I felt
hollowed out, stripped of any will to live.
Sarah’s voice continued, a gentle prodding.
“Chloe, are you okay? Losing your son… it must
be so hard.” Her voice dropped, low enough
that David wouldn’t hear. “You must be
<
inat David woulun near.
You must be
devastated. You’ve lost your leverage.”
Liam. He was my ticket into the Bailey family.
Without him, I had no reason to stay. This
wasn’t where I belonged. It never was.
I cleared my throat. “Then I’ll give him back.”
Sarah paused. “What?”
“I’ll give him back to you.” I regretted the words
instantly. “I’m sorry. He was always yours
anyway.”
The phone was snatched from my hand. David
disconnected the call, his face a mask of
disbelief and anger. “What are you saying to
Sarah?”
What could a grieving mother possibly say to
her husband’s mistress? There were no more
warnings, no more curses. Just… letting go.
Letting them have their happy ending. I couldn’t
<
fight anymore. I didn’t even want to live
anymore.
Under a light drizzle, we laid Liam to rest. The
photo on his headstone was taken when he was
three. We were supposed to have a family
portrait taken that day. Liam and I arrived early,
waiting for hours while other families laughed
and posed, their happiness a stark contrast to
our own fractured reality. I could endure David’s
coldness, but Liam…
The cold, impersonal headstone. Liam’s face in
the photo, unsmiling. He’d known how much
that day had hurt, how disappointed he was.
But he’d forced a smile for me.
Someone held an umbrella over me. I bowed my
head, praying for Liam, praying that in his next
life, he would have parents who loved him,
parents who wouldn’t subject him to a life of
indifference and neglect.
^ firmumn
goood by blurring in the rain Dovid
く
A figure passed by, blurring in the rain. David.
I lifted my heavy eyelids, watching as his black
coat brushed past. He bent down, placing
something on Liam’s grave. As he straightened
up, I saw what it was. A Lego race car set.
My heart lurched. Confused, I grabbed his
sleeve. He flinched, as if afraid I’d make a
scene in front of the mourners. “We can talk
later,” he muttered.
“What is that?” I asked, my voice surprisingly
calm.
He glanced back at the grave. “Liam’s birthday
present. He asked for it. I didn’t…”
“He asked you?”
“We made a deal.”
My overaccion must have alarmad him
பா
<
My expression must have alarmed him. He
grasped my wrist. “What is it?”
My legs gave way. I sank to my knees before
Liam’s grave, a sharp pain twisting in my gut.
My sweet boy… on his last birthday, he’d
received a counterfeit gift, a cheap watch I’d
bought, pretending it was from his father. He’d
accepted it with a smile, saying, “Thank you,
Daddy.”
He knew. He’d known all along. He knew his
father didn’t love him enough to even buy him a
birthday present. He received his real gift only
in death. But what good was it now?
- 3.
The atmosphere at the Bailey house was tense.
David’s father was waiting for him, his cane
gripped tightly in his hand, his brow furrowed.
He spoke to me gently, “Chloe, go upstairs.”
Г
I knew what was coming. He was going to
punish David.
David’s father was the only one in the family
who liked me, trusted me, supported my
marriage to David. Years ago, my father had
saved his life. After my father’s death, the
Baileys had offered my mother a well–paying
job as their housekeeper. Mr. Bailey had also
arranged for me to attend the same school as
David, instructing him to look after me like a
younger sister. And he had, at first. But I’d been
foolish enough to fall in love with him.
Mr. Bailey, furious about David’s absence at the
funeral, had dismissed everyone else, intending
to use the family’s disciplinary methods on his
son. The housekeeper rushed upstairs, pleading
with me to intervene. “Mr. Bailey cares for you
so much. Please, talk to him! You have to stop
him!”
<
2:11
89
Why should I? I used to love David so fiercely
that his pain was my pain. But that love had
withered, replaced by guilt and resentment as I
watched him chase after Sarah. I’d wanted to
leave so many times, to take Liam and run. But
each time, Mr. Bailey would look at me with his
weary eyes, begging me to stay, for Liam’s sake, for my mother’s memory. I shouldn’t have
agreed.
I changed out of my mourning clothes, putting
on simple jeans and a t–shirt. My suitcase held
only Liam’s belongings. I removed my earrings,
placing them on the dresser, making sure I
wasn’t taking anything that wasn’t mine. I didn’t
want David coming after me, demanding I
return things. I couldn’t bear to see him again.
The old jacket I wore offered little warmth. The
cuffs were frayed, the fabric worn thin. I
shivered and went downstairs.
David was kneeling, his hands braced against
<
the TiOor, nis jaw ciencned against the pain. Hе
looked up, his eyes red–rimmed, meeting mine.
I didn’t hold his gaze.
Mr. Bailey dropped his cane and walked
towards me. He was the only person in this house I respected. He’d given my mother and
me a place to live, a chance at a better life. I
was still grateful, even now.
“…Mr. Bailey,” I said, using the formal address
instead of the “Dad” I’d been encouraged to
use.
I remembered the day I’d married David. Mr.
Bailey had placed my hand on David’s, his voice
thick with emotion. “Chloe is a good girl. Take
care of her.”
It had echoed another day, years ago, when my
mother and I first arrived at the Bailey house.
He’d introduced me to David, saying, “Chloe will
be your little sister now. You’ll go to school
together You must look after her ”
<
2:11
together. You must look after her.”
89
Back then, David had smiled at me. At school,
he’d taken care of me, walked me to the
cafeteria, waited for me after class, and dragged me to watch him play basketball, even though he was surrounded by admirers. He was so bright, so popular, the center of attention everywhere he went.
And I… I was ordinary, shy, always hiding behind him. I wore the same plain clothes day after day, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. I barely dared to look him in the eye when I spoke. I was quiet, awkward, unlikeable.
