The world went silent. The morning’s colors faded into a blurry gray. I don’t remember hanging up. I don’t remember starting the car. I only remember the roar of the engine and the city passing by like a blur around me. I ran two red lights. I honked at a truck that cut me off, yelling with a fury born of desperation.
As I drove, my mind was a whirlwind of guilt. Lily. My little Lily. Ever since her mother, my first wife, died of cancer two years ago, Lily had faded a bit. It was natural, the psychologists told me. Grief takes time. Overwhelmed by grief and medical bills, I threw myself into my work. I worked 60, 70 hours a week. I told myself I was doing it for her, to secure her future, to pay for college, to give her the life her mother would have wanted.
And then Amanda appeared. Amanda seemed like an angel sent during my darkest hour. She was organized, efficient, and seemed to adore Lily. When we got married last year, I felt an immense relief. “Now Lily has a mother figure,” I thought. “Now I can focus on working to support us.” Amanda took care of the house, the meals, the school. She would tell me, “Don’t worry, Jack. Lily and I have our girl secrets. You just relax.”