Chapter 4

The house, once my sanctuary, became a prison. Andrew, Molly, and the baby occupied the master suite. I retreated to a guest room, the sound of a baby crying and Molly's soft cooing a constant, torturous reminder of the family he was building under my roof.

A few days into this unbearable living arrangement, a strange thing happened. Madisyn appeared at the front door, alone, a small backpack over her shoulders.

"Clark dropped me off," she said, looking at her shoes. "He said... he said I should spend some time with you. To get to know you."

My heart leaped with a desperate, cautious hope. Was this a change of heart? A recognition that she needed to know her biological mother?

Andrew was suspicious. "What game is Clark playing now?" he muttered.

But I ignored him. I saw only the little girl standing in my doorway, my daughter.

"Of course, sweetie," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I'd love that."

The next twenty-four hours were a fragile, surreal truce. I showed Madisyn old photo albums of myself as a child, pointing out how we had the same smile, the same cowlick in our hair. She was quiet, watchful, her eyes darting between me, Molly, and the baby. I cooked her favorite meal-macaroni and cheese, a fact I'd pried from a reluctant Andrew-and for a fleeting moment, as she took a hesitant bite and smiled, I allowed myself to believe this could work. That love could conquer the lies.

That night, I tucked her into the bed in the guest room next to mine.

"Thank you for the macaroni," she whispered in the dark.

"You're welcome, sweetie," I replied, my heart aching. "Sleep well."

I was wrong. It wasn't a truce. It was an ambush.

Around 2 a.m., I was woken by a strange sound from the nursery down the hall-the room I had so carefully designed for Aiden. It was a faint clinking, followed by a soft hissing. A mother's instinct, raw and primal, shot through me. I slipped out of bed and crept down the hallway.

The nursery door was slightly ajar. Peeking through the crack, I saw a scene from a horror movie.

Madisyn was standing over Aiden's crib. In her small hands, she was holding the electric kettle from the guest room, steam pouring from its spout. She was tipping it, slowly, deliberately, aiming the boiling water at the sleeping infant. Her face was a mask of cold, focused determination.

Time slowed down. My mind screamed. She was going to kill him. And she was going to make it look like I did it.

I didn't think. I acted.

I burst into the room, lunging for the kettle. "Madisyn, no!"

She yelped in surprise, her grip faltering. The kettle tipped violently. Boiling water cascaded out, not onto the baby, but directly onto my arm and chest as I shoved her out of the way.

The pain was instantaneous and blinding. A searing, white-hot agony that stole my breath and made me cry out. I collapsed to the floor, clutching my blistering skin, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air.

Madisyn immediately started screaming, but her screams weren't of fear. They were of accusation.

"She tried to hurt the baby! She tried to hurt him! Help!"

The door flew open. Andrew stood there, his face a storm of sleep-mussed confusion and fury. He took in the scene in a single, damning glance: me on the floor, writhing in pain; the overturned kettle; and Madisyn, pointing a trembling finger at me, tears streaming down her face.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't see my horrific burns. He saw only what he was primed to see.

"You monster," he breathed, his voice filled with a chilling disgust. "You would hurt a baby? My son?"

He rushed to the crib, scooping up a now-wailing Aiden, checking him frantically for injuries. He ignored me completely.

"She's lying, Andrew," I gasped through the waves of pain. "Madisyn... she had the kettle..."

"Save it," he snarled, turning on me with pure hatred in his eyes. "I knew you were unstable, but this... you're sick. You're a monster."

He stormed out of the room with the baby, shouting for Molly. I heard their frantic footsteps, the slamming of the front door, the squeal of tires as they raced away, presumably to the hospital to have the baby checked.

He left me there. On the floor. Alone and severely burned. He didn't even call 911.

Lying in a pool of my own agony, listening to the fading sound of his car, a terrible, cold clarity washed over me. He would never believe me. He would never choose me. He had made his choice eight years ago, and he would keep making it, over and over again.

The love I had for him, the last lingering embers of it, died in that moment, extinguished by the fire on my skin and the ice in my heart.