The call from the police station was a splash of ice water in the face: an accident, they said. My daughter, Lily, was gone.
The words "We did everything we could" shattered my world, made worse by the cold, clinical police report: the other driver, Olivia Hayes, my ex-husband Ethan's new girlfriend, was intoxicated.
Ethan Vance, perfect as always in his tailored suit, smooth and controlled, called it a "terrible tragedy." Days later, his lawyers offered a settlement with too many zeros. When I refused, Ethan himself came, effortlessly opening my door with his old key. He threatened my frail grandmother, Rose, the only family I had left, with a "little fall," forcing me to sign the papers. He was erasing all trace of me from his life.
Just two hours after I signed, the phone rang again: Grandma Rose had fallen, critically injured. At the hospital, the same one where I'd lost Lily, she pressed a key into my hand, her last act of protection. My grandmother was gone.
I stood over her grave, her words, "Live," echoing in my head.
Then Olivia Hayes, pristine in white, walked in, dripping false sympathy. "You must be cursed," she sneered. Rage, raw and pure, surged through me. Ethan, who had once been my knight, pulled me back, commanding me to apologize to the woman who had already stolen everything. His face, once filled with love, was now cold, cruel, and unforgiving.