Chapter 4
The next morning, Mila suggested shipping Lily off to boarding school. She dressed it up in a sweet voice, running her fingers through Ethan's hair over breakfast.
"She's clearly traumatized, babe. She needs professionals. Somewhere with structure. We can't give her what she needs right now—not with my recovery."
Ethan didn't even look up from his coffee. "She's three. Isn't that too young?"
"They have programs for toddlers. It's very European." Mila's smile was flawless. "Besides, every time she looks at me, she screams for Nora. It's not healthy—for either of us."
And just like that, my daughter was shipped off to a facility two states away.
Lily screamed when Marcus drove her to the drop-off. She kicked, she bit, she begged. She called for Daddy. She called for Mommy.
Nobody came.
I followed her there, helpless, watching as a stranger pried her fingers from the car door and carried her thrashing body inside. Her screams echoed down the pristine hallway.
"She'll adjust," the intake coordinator told Marcus flatly. "They always do."
But Lily didn't adjust. Over the next three weeks, she stopped eating properly. She stopped talking to the other children. She sat by the window every day, holding a crumpled photo of me she'd hidden in her pocket.
The staff noted "behavioral regression" and "selective mutism" in her file. Nobody called Ethan. Mila had made sure she was the emergency contact, and she deleted every notification.
Meanwhile, Ethan and Mila were living my life.
He took her to the restaurants where I'd had to beg for a date night. He bought her jewelry from the store where I'd once admired a simple bracelet and been told "we don't need to waste money on that."
Mila posted everything online. The trips. The dinners. Their "love story" of childhood sweethearts finally reunited.
The comments poured in: "You two are perfect together!" "This is what true love looks like!" "So glad you found your way back to each other!"
Nobody asked about the dead wife. Nobody asked about the child.
It was like Lily and I had never existed.
Five weeks after my death, Ethan's law partner, Daniel, invited him for drinks. Daniel was one of the few people at the firm who'd known me personally—he'd been at our wedding, had held Lily as a newborn.
"Ethan, I have to ask." Daniel swirled his whiskey, choosing his words carefully. "The police report on Nora's death—did you read it closely?"
"What's there to read?" Ethan leaned back. "She fell. They ruled it accidental."
"The railing on your terrace is 42 inches high. Nora was 5'4". The physics don't add up for an accidental fall, even if she was intoxicated."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you that I asked a forensic consultant to look at the scene photos, and he said the trajectory suggests she was pushed."
"That's ridiculous." But something flickered in Ethan's eyes—a crack in the armor. "Who would push her?"
Daniel held his gaze. "Who was at the building that night?"
Silence.
Ethan set down his glass. "Mila was there earlier in the day, but she left before Nora arrived. Security confirmed it."
"Did you actually check the security footage yourself?"
Another silence. Longer this time.
"The footage was corrupted," Ethan said slowly. "The building manager said there was a server malfunction that night."
Daniel said nothing. He didn't need to.
I watched the first seed of doubt plant itself in Ethan's mind. It was small—barely a flicker—but it was there.
He went home that night and found Mila curled up on the couch, reading. She looked up with that perfect smile. "Hey, you. Long day?"
"Yeah." He kissed her cheek automatically, but his eyes lingered on her a beat too long.
As he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I saw his hand drift to his phone. He opened his messages—scrolled all the way back to my name.
The last text I'd ever sent him: "Happy anniversary, Ethan. I love you. I always will."
He'd never replied.
His thumb hovered over the screen. Then he locked the phone and turned over.
Not yet. But soon.
"She's clearly traumatized, babe. She needs professionals. Somewhere with structure. We can't give her what she needs right now—not with my recovery."
Ethan didn't even look up from his coffee. "She's three. Isn't that too young?"
"They have programs for toddlers. It's very European." Mila's smile was flawless. "Besides, every time she looks at me, she screams for Nora. It's not healthy—for either of us."
And just like that, my daughter was shipped off to a facility two states away.
Lily screamed when Marcus drove her to the drop-off. She kicked, she bit, she begged. She called for Daddy. She called for Mommy.
Nobody came.
I followed her there, helpless, watching as a stranger pried her fingers from the car door and carried her thrashing body inside. Her screams echoed down the pristine hallway.
"She'll adjust," the intake coordinator told Marcus flatly. "They always do."
But Lily didn't adjust. Over the next three weeks, she stopped eating properly. She stopped talking to the other children. She sat by the window every day, holding a crumpled photo of me she'd hidden in her pocket.
The staff noted "behavioral regression" and "selective mutism" in her file. Nobody called Ethan. Mila had made sure she was the emergency contact, and she deleted every notification.
Meanwhile, Ethan and Mila were living my life.
He took her to the restaurants where I'd had to beg for a date night. He bought her jewelry from the store where I'd once admired a simple bracelet and been told "we don't need to waste money on that."
Mila posted everything online. The trips. The dinners. Their "love story" of childhood sweethearts finally reunited.
The comments poured in: "You two are perfect together!" "This is what true love looks like!" "So glad you found your way back to each other!"
Nobody asked about the dead wife. Nobody asked about the child.
It was like Lily and I had never existed.
Five weeks after my death, Ethan's law partner, Daniel, invited him for drinks. Daniel was one of the few people at the firm who'd known me personally—he'd been at our wedding, had held Lily as a newborn.
"Ethan, I have to ask." Daniel swirled his whiskey, choosing his words carefully. "The police report on Nora's death—did you read it closely?"
"What's there to read?" Ethan leaned back. "She fell. They ruled it accidental."
"The railing on your terrace is 42 inches high. Nora was 5'4". The physics don't add up for an accidental fall, even if she was intoxicated."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you that I asked a forensic consultant to look at the scene photos, and he said the trajectory suggests she was pushed."
"That's ridiculous." But something flickered in Ethan's eyes—a crack in the armor. "Who would push her?"
Daniel held his gaze. "Who was at the building that night?"
Silence.
Ethan set down his glass. "Mila was there earlier in the day, but she left before Nora arrived. Security confirmed it."
"Did you actually check the security footage yourself?"
Another silence. Longer this time.
"The footage was corrupted," Ethan said slowly. "The building manager said there was a server malfunction that night."
Daniel said nothing. He didn't need to.
I watched the first seed of doubt plant itself in Ethan's mind. It was small—barely a flicker—but it was there.
He went home that night and found Mila curled up on the couch, reading. She looked up with that perfect smile. "Hey, you. Long day?"
"Yeah." He kissed her cheek automatically, but his eyes lingered on her a beat too long.
As he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I saw his hand drift to his phone. He opened his messages—scrolled all the way back to my name.
The last text I'd ever sent him: "Happy anniversary, Ethan. I love you. I always will."
He'd never replied.
His thumb hovered over the screen. Then he locked the phone and turned over.
Not yet. But soon.