Chapter 3
The transplant was successful.
Mila woke up two days later with my heart beating in her chest. The first thing she did was reach for Ethan's hand and whisper, "I can feel it. I'm alive because of you."
Not because of me—the woman whose heart was keeping her alive. Because of him.
Ethan kissed her forehead, tears in his eyes. Tears. I'd never seen him cry in five years of marriage. Not when Lily was born, not when I begged him to come home, not when they told him I was brain-dead.
But watching Mila breathe with my heart—that made him weep.
"I'm never letting anything happen to you again," he whispered. "We've got our second chance."
Their second chance was built on my corpse.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to drift into whatever came after death and forget this life entirely. But something anchored me—a thread I couldn't sever.
Lily.
While Ethan held vigil at Mila's bedside, Lily was shuffled to his assistant, Marcus, who clearly had no idea what to do with a three-year-old.
Marcus set her up in Ethan's home office with an iPad and a granola bar. He closed the door and went back to answering emails.
I watched my daughter tap the screen, searching for something. She opened the photo gallery—our photos. Me holding her at the beach. Me braiding her hair. Me kissing her cheek with cake frosting on my nose.
"Mommy." She pressed her finger to my face on the screen. "Come home, Mommy."
She didn't understand death. How could she? She was three.
Nobody had explained anything to her. Nobody had even tried.
After three days, Ethan finally came home. Lily ran to the door the moment she heard his keys, her face lighting up with desperate hope.
"Daddy! Where's Mommy? Is Mommy at the hospital? Can we visit?"
Ethan crouched to her level, but his eyes were distant. "Lily, Mommy's gone away. She's not coming back."
"When is she coming back?"
"She's not." He stood up and walked past her toward his bedroom. "Marcus will take you to Grandma Jo's tomorrow."
Grandma Jo was Mila's mother. A woman who'd called me "the placeholder" at our wedding—loudly enough for the first three tables to hear. A woman who'd told Lily she wasn't a "real Reed" because I wasn't good enough for the family.
"I don't want Grandma Jo! I want Mommy!" Lily grabbed his pant leg, pulling hard.
Ethan pried her fingers off without looking down. "Lily, enough. I have things to handle."
The door shut in her face.
I watched my baby slide down against that door, her wails muffled by the wood between them. She stayed there until she fell asleep on the cold hallway floor.
No one came to move her. No one covered her with a blanket. No one checked if she was breathing.
Mila was released from the hospital one week later. She moved into our home—my home—like she'd always lived there.
The first thing she did was redecorate. My photos came off the walls. Lily's drawings were pulled from the fridge and thrown in the trash. My clothes were bagged and donated.
"Fresh start," Mila told Ethan, spinning around the living room. "This place needs to feel like us."
"Whatever makes you happy." Ethan wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "This is your home now."
It was my home. The one I'd decorated piece by piece on a budget he'd never supplemented. The garden I'd planted with Lily. The kitchen where I'd baked every birthday cake because Ethan never remembered to order one.
All erased in a single afternoon.
But the worst was yet to come.
That night, I heard Mila on the phone with her mother.
"Everything's going according to plan. He doesn't suspect anything... No, of course not. The surveillance footage from the terrace was deleted weeks ago... He thinks she was drunk and fell."
She paused, laughing softly.
"The best part? He literally handed me her heart. I didn't even have to ask twice."
She hung up and looked at herself in my bedroom mirror—now her bedroom mirror—and pressed a hand to her chest where my heart beat.
"Thank you, Nora," she whispered to her reflection, smiling. "You were useful after all."
Mila woke up two days later with my heart beating in her chest. The first thing she did was reach for Ethan's hand and whisper, "I can feel it. I'm alive because of you."
Not because of me—the woman whose heart was keeping her alive. Because of him.
Ethan kissed her forehead, tears in his eyes. Tears. I'd never seen him cry in five years of marriage. Not when Lily was born, not when I begged him to come home, not when they told him I was brain-dead.
But watching Mila breathe with my heart—that made him weep.
"I'm never letting anything happen to you again," he whispered. "We've got our second chance."
Their second chance was built on my corpse.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to drift into whatever came after death and forget this life entirely. But something anchored me—a thread I couldn't sever.
Lily.
While Ethan held vigil at Mila's bedside, Lily was shuffled to his assistant, Marcus, who clearly had no idea what to do with a three-year-old.
Marcus set her up in Ethan's home office with an iPad and a granola bar. He closed the door and went back to answering emails.
I watched my daughter tap the screen, searching for something. She opened the photo gallery—our photos. Me holding her at the beach. Me braiding her hair. Me kissing her cheek with cake frosting on my nose.
"Mommy." She pressed her finger to my face on the screen. "Come home, Mommy."
She didn't understand death. How could she? She was three.
Nobody had explained anything to her. Nobody had even tried.
After three days, Ethan finally came home. Lily ran to the door the moment she heard his keys, her face lighting up with desperate hope.
"Daddy! Where's Mommy? Is Mommy at the hospital? Can we visit?"
Ethan crouched to her level, but his eyes were distant. "Lily, Mommy's gone away. She's not coming back."
"When is she coming back?"
"She's not." He stood up and walked past her toward his bedroom. "Marcus will take you to Grandma Jo's tomorrow."
Grandma Jo was Mila's mother. A woman who'd called me "the placeholder" at our wedding—loudly enough for the first three tables to hear. A woman who'd told Lily she wasn't a "real Reed" because I wasn't good enough for the family.
"I don't want Grandma Jo! I want Mommy!" Lily grabbed his pant leg, pulling hard.
Ethan pried her fingers off without looking down. "Lily, enough. I have things to handle."
The door shut in her face.
I watched my baby slide down against that door, her wails muffled by the wood between them. She stayed there until she fell asleep on the cold hallway floor.
No one came to move her. No one covered her with a blanket. No one checked if she was breathing.
Mila was released from the hospital one week later. She moved into our home—my home—like she'd always lived there.
The first thing she did was redecorate. My photos came off the walls. Lily's drawings were pulled from the fridge and thrown in the trash. My clothes were bagged and donated.
"Fresh start," Mila told Ethan, spinning around the living room. "This place needs to feel like us."
"Whatever makes you happy." Ethan wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "This is your home now."
It was my home. The one I'd decorated piece by piece on a budget he'd never supplemented. The garden I'd planted with Lily. The kitchen where I'd baked every birthday cake because Ethan never remembered to order one.
All erased in a single afternoon.
But the worst was yet to come.
That night, I heard Mila on the phone with her mother.
"Everything's going according to plan. He doesn't suspect anything... No, of course not. The surveillance footage from the terrace was deleted weeks ago... He thinks she was drunk and fell."
She paused, laughing softly.
"The best part? He literally handed me her heart. I didn't even have to ask twice."
She hung up and looked at herself in my bedroom mirror—now her bedroom mirror—and pressed a hand to her chest where my heart beat.
"Thank you, Nora," she whispered to her reflection, smiling. "You were useful after all."