Chapter 3

The journey to the operating room was a slow, surreal nightmare. Every bump of the gurney sent waves of pain through my leg, but it was nothing compared to the agony in my soul. I knew what they were about to do, what David had commanded. I was helpless to stop it. As the anesthesia flooded my veins, my last conscious thought was of Ethan' s smile. Then, blackness.

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was David' s face, a perfect portrait of concern. He was holding my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. The gesture that once comforted me now felt like a violation.

"Sarah, you' re awake," he whispered. "The surgery was a success. You' re going to be okay."

I stared at the ceiling, my throat too tight to speak.

He cleared his throat, his expression shifting to one of profound sadness. "There were... complications, honey. The damage was more extensive than they thought. The doctors... they had to perform a hysterectomy. I' m so, so sorry."

He delivered the lie with heartbreaking sincerity. I played my part, letting a single tear roll down my cheek. I had to be the grieving, broken wife he expected me to be. It was the only way I would survive.

I felt a deep, hollow emptiness in my belly, a new void next to the one Ethan had left. He had taken everything from me. My son. My future.

Days later, when I was stronger, I asked the question I' d been dreading.

"David... Ethan' s funeral. When is it?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Don' t you worry about that. It' s all been taken care of. I had a simple, private service. It' s better this way. Less painful for you."

"Taken care of?" I repeated, my voice hoarse. "Without me?"

"You were in surgery, Sarah. It was for the best."

A cold dread seeped into my bones. "His things... did you save anything for me? His favorite bear? The little worn-out one with one eye?"

David sighed, a sound of strained patience. "Sarah, he' s gone. What' s the point of holding onto some dirty old toy? We need to look forward, to heal."

His detachment was absolute. He didn't just lack sentiment; he was actively erasing our son. That' s when I saw it. As an art restorer, my entire career was built on seeing what lies beneath the surface-the faint brushstroke that reveals a forgery, the subtle discoloration that points to decay. I looked at my husband, at the man I had shared a bed with for ten years, and I saw the forgery. His grief was a cheap imitation, a thin veneer of paint over a rotten canvas.

He mentioned he' d commissioned a small, marble headstone. "The best Carrara marble," he said, as if the price tag was a substitute for love. "I made sure the inscription was perfect."

"What did it say?" I asked.

" 'Ethan Chen. Beloved Son.' Simple. Dignified."

I knew then he was lying about that, too. I had spent years working with stone. I knew the suppliers, the carvers, the time it took. You couldn' t get a custom-carved headstone made from Italian marble in three days. It was impossible. He hadn't even bothered to get his lie right. He hadn't cared enough to make it believable. He just assumed I was too shattered to notice.

He was wrong.