Chapter 5
The doubt grew slowly, like poison in water.
It started with small things. Ethan noticed how quickly Mila had moved in—as if she'd been planning it. How she knew exactly where everything was in the house. How she'd already changed the security codes and the WiFi password before he even thought to ask.
"How did you know the password to Nora's laptop?" he asked one morning, catching her scrolling through files on my computer.
Mila didn't miss a beat. "You gave it to me months ago, remember? When I needed to print those medical forms and your printer was the only one working."
He didn't remember. But he let it go.
Then he noticed the photographs. In the weeks of redecorating, Mila had removed every trace of me—except one. She'd kept our wedding album buried in the garage, and I watched her flip through it late at night when Ethan was asleep.
She wasn't reminiscing. She was studying. Comparing herself to me. Making sure she'd erased every detail.
But what Mila didn't know was that I'd kept a journal. A physical journal, hidden in a place she'd never think to look—inside the lining of Lily's car seat, which was still in the garage.
I'd started writing it six months before my death, when I first began noticing things. Mila's strange questions about my health. The way she'd casually ask about my blood type, my allergies, my next doctor's appointment. How she always seemed to know my schedule better than Ethan did.
At first I thought she was being friendly. Then I thought she was being competitive. By the end, I was afraid.
The journal documented everything. Every suspicious conversation. Every time I caught her going through my medical files. The text she'd accidentally sent me instead of someone else: "Compatibility confirmed. Phase 2 ready."
I'd confronted her about it, and she'd laughed it off. "It was for a medical drama I'm writing! You know I've always wanted to be a screenwriter."
I believed her. Because I was stupid. Because I wanted to believe the best in people. Because admitting the truth would mean admitting my entire life was a lie.
The journal was still there. Waiting.
Six weeks after my death, Ethan finally called Lily's school.
Not because he missed her. Because the school had sent a formal notice threatening to involve child services if a parent didn't attend an emergency meeting within 48 hours.
He drove up alone. Mila had conveniently scheduled a "follow-up appointment" so she wouldn't have to go.
I followed him inside.
The director was a stern woman with kind eyes. She didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Mr. Reed, your daughter hasn't spoken in three weeks. She's lost four pounds—which, at her age and size, is dangerous. She sleeps with her mother's photograph under her pillow and wakes up screaming every night."
Ethan shifted in his seat. "She's adjusting. Kids are resilient—"
"Mr. Reed." The director's voice cut like a blade. "Lily is not adjusting. She is deteriorating. If this continues, we'll have no choice but to recommend hospitalization."
"Hospitalization? She's three."
"Exactly. She's three, and she's exhibiting signs of severe psychological trauma consistent with sudden parental loss and abandonment." The director leaned forward. "When is the last time you held your daughter, Mr. Reed?"
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. His fingers tightened on the armrest.
He couldn't remember.
"Can I see her?" he finally asked.
They brought Lily to a visiting room. When she walked in, I barely recognized her. My vibrant, chattering little girl was gaunt, hollow-eyed, clutching a ragged piece of paper to her chest.
She looked at Ethan and didn't run to him. She just stood there, small and still, watching him like he was a stranger.
"Lily. Baby." Ethan crouched down, reaching for her.
She flinched.
"Lily, it's Daddy."
She looked past him, scanning the room. "Where's Mommy?"
"Baby, Mommy's—"
"You said she went away." Lily's voice was barely audible. "But she promised she'd never go away. She promised."
Ethan's composure cracked. Just slightly—a tremor in his jaw, a brightness in his eyes he fought to contain.
He reached out again, and this time Lily let him pull her close. She didn't hug back. She just went limp in his arms, her small voice whispering on repeat:
"She promised. She promised. She promised."
Ethan drove home with Lily asleep in the back seat. It was the first decision he'd made against Mila's wishes, and I could tell it cost him.
When he carried Lily inside, Mila was waiting in the foyer. Her expression shifted from surprise to irritation in a fraction of a second before settling into concern.
"Oh no—is she okay? What happened?"
"She's coming home," Ethan said. His voice left no room for argument. "She stays."
Mila's smile tightened. "Of course. Whatever you think is best."
But later that night, when Ethan was putting Lily to bed, I saw Mila pull out her phone.
She texted her mother: "The brat's back. We need to accelerate the timeline."
It started with small things. Ethan noticed how quickly Mila had moved in—as if she'd been planning it. How she knew exactly where everything was in the house. How she'd already changed the security codes and the WiFi password before he even thought to ask.
"How did you know the password to Nora's laptop?" he asked one morning, catching her scrolling through files on my computer.
Mila didn't miss a beat. "You gave it to me months ago, remember? When I needed to print those medical forms and your printer was the only one working."
He didn't remember. But he let it go.
Then he noticed the photographs. In the weeks of redecorating, Mila had removed every trace of me—except one. She'd kept our wedding album buried in the garage, and I watched her flip through it late at night when Ethan was asleep.
She wasn't reminiscing. She was studying. Comparing herself to me. Making sure she'd erased every detail.
But what Mila didn't know was that I'd kept a journal. A physical journal, hidden in a place she'd never think to look—inside the lining of Lily's car seat, which was still in the garage.
I'd started writing it six months before my death, when I first began noticing things. Mila's strange questions about my health. The way she'd casually ask about my blood type, my allergies, my next doctor's appointment. How she always seemed to know my schedule better than Ethan did.
At first I thought she was being friendly. Then I thought she was being competitive. By the end, I was afraid.
The journal documented everything. Every suspicious conversation. Every time I caught her going through my medical files. The text she'd accidentally sent me instead of someone else: "Compatibility confirmed. Phase 2 ready."
I'd confronted her about it, and she'd laughed it off. "It was for a medical drama I'm writing! You know I've always wanted to be a screenwriter."
I believed her. Because I was stupid. Because I wanted to believe the best in people. Because admitting the truth would mean admitting my entire life was a lie.
The journal was still there. Waiting.
Six weeks after my death, Ethan finally called Lily's school.
Not because he missed her. Because the school had sent a formal notice threatening to involve child services if a parent didn't attend an emergency meeting within 48 hours.
He drove up alone. Mila had conveniently scheduled a "follow-up appointment" so she wouldn't have to go.
I followed him inside.
The director was a stern woman with kind eyes. She didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Mr. Reed, your daughter hasn't spoken in three weeks. She's lost four pounds—which, at her age and size, is dangerous. She sleeps with her mother's photograph under her pillow and wakes up screaming every night."
Ethan shifted in his seat. "She's adjusting. Kids are resilient—"
"Mr. Reed." The director's voice cut like a blade. "Lily is not adjusting. She is deteriorating. If this continues, we'll have no choice but to recommend hospitalization."
"Hospitalization? She's three."
"Exactly. She's three, and she's exhibiting signs of severe psychological trauma consistent with sudden parental loss and abandonment." The director leaned forward. "When is the last time you held your daughter, Mr. Reed?"
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. His fingers tightened on the armrest.
He couldn't remember.
"Can I see her?" he finally asked.
They brought Lily to a visiting room. When she walked in, I barely recognized her. My vibrant, chattering little girl was gaunt, hollow-eyed, clutching a ragged piece of paper to her chest.
She looked at Ethan and didn't run to him. She just stood there, small and still, watching him like he was a stranger.
"Lily. Baby." Ethan crouched down, reaching for her.
She flinched.
"Lily, it's Daddy."
She looked past him, scanning the room. "Where's Mommy?"
"Baby, Mommy's—"
"You said she went away." Lily's voice was barely audible. "But she promised she'd never go away. She promised."
Ethan's composure cracked. Just slightly—a tremor in his jaw, a brightness in his eyes he fought to contain.
He reached out again, and this time Lily let him pull her close. She didn't hug back. She just went limp in his arms, her small voice whispering on repeat:
"She promised. She promised. She promised."
Ethan drove home with Lily asleep in the back seat. It was the first decision he'd made against Mila's wishes, and I could tell it cost him.
When he carried Lily inside, Mila was waiting in the foyer. Her expression shifted from surprise to irritation in a fraction of a second before settling into concern.
"Oh no—is she okay? What happened?"
"She's coming home," Ethan said. His voice left no room for argument. "She stays."
Mila's smile tightened. "Of course. Whatever you think is best."
But later that night, when Ethan was putting Lily to bed, I saw Mila pull out her phone.
She texted her mother: "The brat's back. We need to accelerate the timeline."