Ryan didn’t hesitate. He pulled me close and spoke with a certainty I clung to.
“You and those kids are my family. That’s not up for debate. I’ll handle this.”
He bought us a home in a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets and good schools. It was far enough away that we didn’t have to see Margaret unless we chose to. He drew boundaries, and for a while, they held.
Margaret kept her distance. She sent birthday cards. Appeared on holidays with stiff smiles and awkward gifts. It wasn’t warm, but it was peaceful enough.
Then came the phone call.
I was chopping vegetables for dinner while the kids worked on homework at the kitchen table. The phone rang, and something in my chest tightened before I even answered.
The voice on the other end was calm. Professional. The kind of voice that prepares you for bad news before it ever arrives.
My knife hit the counter. The room spun.
I don’t remember the drive to the hospital. I don’t remember the waiting room. I remember the doctor’s face and how I knew before he spoke.
Ryan was gone.
Just gone.
The days that followed blurred together. Black clothes. Quiet hugs. Condolences that felt distant and hollow. Emma clung to my hand everywhere we went. Liam stood straighter than I’d ever seen him, trying to be strong for all of us.
Margaret sat in the front row at the funeral. She didn’t cry.
After the service, she approached me, her posture stiff, her expression unreadable.
“This is your fault,” she said calmly.
I stared at her, stunned.
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