When Allie hears her daughter say, "I miss you, Dad," over the landline, her world falls apart. Her husband has been dead for 18 years, or so she thought. As disturbing truths emerge, Allie is forced to confront the past and the lies that have shaped their entire lives.
My husband died when our daughter Susie was just two weeks old.
A car accident. That's what I was told. One moment, Charles was kissing me on the forehead while running a quick errand at the supermarket. The next, I was shaking hands with a police officer, struggling to understand gibberish.
He was gone. Here's how it happened.
I was 23. The pain clung to me like a second skin. And worse, I was holding a newborn baby who needed more than my broken self could offer. That's when Diane, Charles's mother, stepped in. She worked in the mayor's office and promised to "make everything easier."
I didn't argue. I didn't even ask questions.
I simply nodded as the funeral unfolded behind a closed casket. She insisted on a quick cremation. She made the decisions. I'm bedridden, tenant Susie, and I let Diane smooth over the cracks in my world like wallpaper on rotten walls.
I never saw his body.
I told myself it didn't matter anymore.
My husband filed for divorce as if he were initiating a lawsuit.
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