Chapter 4

The next day, John drove me to the funeral home. Mary stayed in the car, saying she couldn't bear it. The air inside was thick with the scent of lilies and formaldehyde, a cloyingly sweet smell that made my stomach turn.

The process of cremation was cold and mechanical. I stood behind a thick pane of glass, watching as they pushed the small, simple casket into the chamber. I didn't cry. I couldn't. The tears were frozen somewhere deep inside me, a solid block of ice in my chest. I just bit my lip until I tasted blood, the physical pain a dull distraction from the roaring emptiness in my soul.

John stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder. His face was a grim mask of fury.

"She should be here," he muttered, his voice tight. "This is her daughter too. Where the hell is she?"

He pulled out his phone and dialed Sarah's number. He let it ring and ring, then put it to his ear. "Voicemail," he grunted, shoving the phone back in his pocket. "It's turned off. Unbelievable."

An hour later, a man in a dark suit came out carrying a small, heavy box. A polished wooden box, simple and unadorned.

Lily.

Before John could even move, I stepped forward and took the box from the man's hands. I pulled it close to my chest, holding it tight. It was still warm.

"She's my daughter," I said, my voice hoarse, directed at anyone and no one.

I turned to John, the box clutched in my arms like a lifeline. I couldn't bring myself to look at his face. I just stared at his shoes.

"John," I said, my voice cracking.

Then, I did something I had never done before. I knelt. Right there on the polished floor of the funeral home, I got down on my knees in front of the man who had been a father to me for half my life.

"Please," I begged, the word tearing from my throat. "Let me take her. Let me take her away from here. She's my daughter. I'm her father. It's my job to protect her. I have to take her somewhere warm. Somewhere peaceful. Please, just let me go."

John was silent for a long moment. I could feel his gaze on the top of my bowed head. I heard him take a shaky breath.

"Alright, son," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Alright. You take her. You do what you need to do. It's your right. We'll handle... everything else here."

I stayed on my knees, unable to move, just clutching the box and sobbing, the frozen block of grief inside me finally beginning to thaw into scalding, silent tears.

He helped me up and walked me to the car. He didn't say anything else, and neither did I. There was nothing left to say.

I directed him not to his house, but to mine. To the home I had shared with Sarah. I needed to get Lily's things. I couldn't leave them there.

When we pulled up to the curb, John turned off the engine. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"No," I said, my hand on the door handle. "I need to do this alone."

I walked up the path, the box with Lily's ashes held securely in my arms. As I reached the front door, I heard voices from inside. A woman's high-pitched giggle, followed by a man's low rumble.

Sarah and David.

My key was in the lock, but I couldn't turn it. I was frozen, forced to listen to the sickeningly intimate sounds coming from within my own home. My daughter's home.

I backed away from the door and sat on the cold concrete steps, clutching the box to my chest. I waited. I don't know why. Maybe it was a form of self-punishment. I sat there as the sun began to set, the warmth of the box slowly fading, listening to the sounds of my wife betraying me in the house where our daughter took her first steps, said her first words, and lived her short, beautiful life. The pain was so immense, so profound, it felt like I was being hollowed out from the inside, leaving nothing but a fragile shell.