Chapter 3

Jacob rushed in and pulled me into his arms.

"Mr. Carter, she's just a child! Are you trying to kill her?"

My father finally stopped, panting.

"Jacob, are you trying to get fired? Who said you could just barge into my house?"

"Fire me! I don't care! I have to speak my mind!"

Jacob stood in front of me, pointing an accusing finger at Lily.

"She's the one who brought that beanbag here! The fabric is so tough that even a knife can't cut it! How could a woman as small as your wife get out on her own?

"My biggest regret is letting her in," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "She killed your wife!"

But my father was unmoved.

"Lily is kind and innocent. She's not like Caitlin, who only knows how to play the victim."

"Stay out of my family's business. Now get the hell out!" he snarled, forcefully shoving Jacob out the door. He turned back to me, a vein throbbing in his temple.

Lily sat on the sofa with a smirk on her face as my father dragged me from room to room, searching for my mother.

His grip on my collar was so tight it was hard to breathe. He was cursing, muttering about what he would do to my mother when he found her.

But there was no trace of her, not even in the trash. He finally let me go and pulled out his phone.

The ringtone echoed from the living room. He found my mother's phone under the sofa. When he saw her lock screen, he froze.

It was a picture of the three of us. A tiny me held both their hands, smiling.

He seemed to remember something, a flicker of a better time. He crouched in front of me, his grip on my arms gentle for the first time.

"Mia, where is your mother?"

Lily started to say something, but just then, there was a knock at the door.

Two policemen stood there, holding a small box.

When they saw my bruised and battered body, their faces hardened.

"Are you her father?"

My father stared at them blankly and then started to laugh.

He twisted my arm hard. "Your mother is really something," he sneered. "Hiring actors to try and fool me."

He shoved me toward the officers. "I'm not her father. I'm just an actor, like you, hired by Caitlin," he said casually.

"If you see her," he added, "tell her she owes me my wages."

The policemen exchanged doubtful glances as my father insisted he didn't know us.

Their questioning eyes landed on me next. A long, heavy moment passed before I could choke out the words. "He's not my dad."

The day my mother died, my father died with her.

The officers sighed and handed me the small box, their faces etched with a look of profound pity.

"Sweetie," one of them said, "these are your mother's ashes. We will get justice for her."

I hugged the box to my chest, as if I could feel my mother's warmth.

After the officers left, I took the box to the garden.

I wanted to bury her ashes there. My mother loved flowers.

She once told me that the first gift my father ever gave her was a rose he had grown himself.

After they were married, he brought her a fresh bouquet every week, a promise that he would always be there for us.

But now, for another woman and her child, he had thrown us away.

My tears fell onto the soil, softening it. As I dug, my fingers brushed against something soft. It was a doll with my mother's birthday written on it, pierced with steel pins.

A shrill scream came from behind me. I turned to see Lily on the ground, clutching her stomach.

She pointed at the doll in my hand. "No wonder this pregnancy has been so difficult!" she shrieked at my father. "She's been cursing me!"