Chapter 3

I spent the morning packing Lily's things into a small box. Her most cherished possessions. A family photo where I was holding her, and Mark stood stiffly beside us, his eyes distant. A crooked necktie she had made for him in preschool, which he had never worn. A drawing she' d made of a big red rescue helicopter. "Mommy, you can fly one of these someday," she had told me.

The house felt like a tomb. Every room echoed with her absence. I fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from grief, and woke up shivering. I had a fever.

To my shock, Mark was there. He must have come home at some point. He was gentle, placing a cool cloth on my forehead, bringing me water. He sat with me all night, a silent, brooding presence. For a fleeting, foolish moment, it felt like the old days, before the coldness had set in completely.

The next morning, the gentleness was gone. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, looking at me with a detached pity.

"Sarah, let's get a divorce."

I didn't even flinch. The numbness was back, a welcome shield. "Okay," I said. I reached into my bag and pulled out the divorce papers I had printed. I had already signed my part.

He looked surprised. "You... you agree just like that?"

"Yes."

He seemed to need to justify himself. "It's not what you think with Emily. She's dying, Sarah. It's her dying wish to have a wedding. We owe her this. It's a misunderstanding."

He kept talking, the words a meaningless drone. "I'll still be here for you. For you and Lily. Don't be jealous of a woman who's about to die."

I just slid the papers and a pen across the table. He signed.

He looked up, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "How's Lily? I'll take her to the rescue vehicle museum for her birthday next month. I promise."

A fresh wave of pain washed over me. He didn' t know. He didn't even know our daughter was gone.

The next few days were a special kind of hell. Emily's social media was a curated display of Mark's devotion. A screenshot of a late-night call log. A picture of a sunset taken from a helicopter, with the caption, "My hero flies me to see the best views." A post detailing his worried voice over the fire department radio, asking if she was feeling okay. All the things I had yearned for, she received and flaunted to the world.

The day of Lily's memorial service arrived. It was a small gathering in our backyard with just me, Jessica, and a few close friends. Mark was supposed to be on shift.

Suddenly, the back gate flew open. Mark stormed in, his face a mask of rage.

"Sarah Miller!" he roared, his voice echoing across the quiet yard. "Did you report Emily to the aviation authorities? Did you tell them she was a homewrecker?"

He pointed a shaking finger at me. "Is this why Lily got sick? Because of your lack of virtue? Because you have a wicked heart?"