Chapter 1 - THE DUST ON THE RAIN BOOTS
The funeral of your husband and your little girl just wasn’t a strong enough excuse to spoil our trip.
That was the exact text my mom sent to me while I stood in front of two caskets, enduring a freezing drizzle at the cemetery, as if the skies were grieving with me. Resting in the bigger casket was Ethan, my partner of eleven years. Inside the smaller one, smothered in white blossoms, lay our seven-year-old daughter, Lily.
My parents never showed up. My brother was a no-show, too.
Instead of being there to support me, they had flown off to Miami Beach to throw a party because Brandon, their undisputed favorite child, had "secured the contract of a lifetime." Early that morning, they texted me a vacation picture: my dad gripping a cocktail, my mom with her bare feet in the ocean, and Brandon grinning widely between the two of them.
Right below the photograph, my mother had typed: Last-minute flights are incredibly overpriced, and funerals take too much out of you emotionally. Please don't blow things out of proportion, Claire. What occurred is tragic, but it is far too trivial to make us cancel our vacation.
Too trivial.
That was the phrase they used to describe the deaths of my husband and my child.
Three days past the funeral, I stepped back into our empty house in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. Lily’s bright yellow rain boots were parked by the entrance, still covered in mud from the backyard. Ethan’s coffee mug was resting near the kitchen sink. His jacket draped casually over a dining room chair. Everything in the house looked like it was simply waiting for two souls who would never walk through the door again.
Right at seven o'clock that evening, a loud knock came from the front door.
It was my parents.
They stood there looking sunburned, outfitted in breezy summer clothes, pulling a couple of suitcases. Brandon was lounging a few feet back against a rented SUV, his eyes fixated on his smartphone screen.
My mother barged in without waiting to be welcomed. “Well, you finally answered. You look dreadful.”
My father took a slow look around our living room. “Has the insurance company processed your paperwork yet?”
He didn't bother to ask how I was holding up. He never uttered Ethan's name. He didn't even look at the framed picture of Lily sitting on the shelf.
Brandon strode into the house and went straight toward the dining area. “I'm going to need $40,000. It's strictly a temporary loan. The minute my bank funding clears, I'll return it.”
I stared back at him, completely paralyzed by shock. “I just buried my family.”
My mother let out a loud, irritated sigh. “And that is precisely the reason why. Ethan had a hefty life insurance policy, and the freight company will be forced to pay up for the accident. You're about to come into millions.”
“So you drove all the way here to demand my money?”
“Don't be so greedy,” my father shot back. “Brandon might lose his entire enterprise.”
My brother finally slipped his cell phone into his pants pocket. “I just need you to approve the bank wire by tomorrow. It's incredibly urgent.”
My mother crossed her arms defiantly. “After all the sacrifices we have made for you, you owe this to us.”
I gazed at them without uttering a word—staring at their tanned skin, the all-inclusive resort bracelets still dangling from their wrists, and the sheer casualness with which they demanded cash while Lily’s school backpack still rested quietly in the hall.
Suddenly, I recalled the envelope I had stumbled upon earlier that afternoon, tucked away inside Ethan’s office desk. It was a black envelope, tightly sealed, with my name penned across the front in his personal handwriting. I carried it over to the table, ripped open the seal, and pulled out a flash drive, a stack of wire transfer receipts, and a printed letter that my husband had signed exactly two months before he died.
May you like
The opening line read: Claire, if you are reading this message, it means I couldn't protect you.
My heart felt like it stopped beating completely. I slowly raised my eyes to look at my family. The arrogant smirk had vanished from my mother's face.
