Chapter 1
After picking up an odd tone in my daughter's voice over the phone, I cut my business trip short and rushed home, only to find my key wouldn't turn in the lock.
I immediately called a locksmith to come over.
Once the locksmith forced the door open, I found my five-year-old daughter in the bathroom.
I scooped her up in a panic. Her whole body was burning with fever, her forehead split open, and her arms wrapped tight in plastic wrap.
Beneath the plastic wrap were blisters from scalding hot water.
She heard my voice and struggled to open her eyes.
"Mommy, I've been such a good girl. I didn't bother Daddy even once these past few days," she said.
"Daddy said people hate kids who cry. So I didn't cry at all."
I sprinted to the hospital holding her tight. Meanwhile, my husband's social media post popped up on my phone.
The photo showed him holding hands with a little girl in a red dress by the sea.
His first love Emily left a caption: "Thank you, Mr. Carter, for taking Sophie to see the ocean."
But my own Sophie had just woken up from a coma.
My husband finally answered my call, sounding irritable.
"The kid's just a little hurt. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of this?
"Don't forget, Claire. She's a Carter."
I saw my daughter shaking all over in the hospital bed and quietly hung up the phone.
Starting this very moment, she could get a new dad.
The doctor cut away the plastic wrap covering Sophie's arms, his face darkening instantly.
"Who wrapped her up like this?" he asked.
Sophie huddled tight against my chest, her voice tiny and quiet.
"I did it myself.
"I saw it on TV. Wrapping it stops the pain."
The nurse turned her head and subtly wiped a tear from her eye.
I held Sophie's squirming shoulders steady.
"Mommy's here now.
"From now on, cry whenever you hurt, or whenever you're scared. You don't have to act good for anyone," I said gently.
Sophie pressed her cracked, dry lips together.
"Daddy doesn't like it when I cry," she whispered.
"But Mommy does," I told her softly.
The first tear rolled down her cheek, and soon she broke down sobbing harder and harder.
"Mommy, I called for Daddy so many times.
"I couldn't get the door open, and I couldn't reach the window either.
"I thought you left me."
I pulled her tight into my arms, too choked‑up to get a full sentence out.
The test results arrived quickly.
She had scald burns, lung infection, and blunt head trauma.
The doctor fixed his gaze on me.
"How could no one in the house notice she was hurt this badly?" he asked.
"Her dad promised he'd look after her," I replied.
"Where was he then?"
I pulled up David's social media feed.
There were photos of beaches, luxury hotels, fancy restaurants, and yachts.
He held Emily's little girl in his arms, smiling with endless patience.
Beneath the post, acquaintances left comment after compliment.
[Mr. Carter is such a devoted dad.]
[Sophie is so lucky.]
[They look so similar to each other.]
My stomach twisted into knots when I read that last line.
My Sophie shared far more of David's features.
Yet she'd been left alone at home, starving, burning with fever, unable even to get a sip of water.
Meanwhile, Emily's daughter wore beautiful dresses, riding on his shoulders to watch the waves.
I dialed David's number.
The first try failed.
I tried again.
The screen lit up and faded over and over.
Sophie lay on the hospital bed and suddenly tugged at my sleeve.
"Mommy, stop calling," Sophie said softly.
"Daddy said he's celebrating that girl's birthday, and told me not to bother him."
My head snapped up.
"He told you that himself?" I asked incredulously.
Sophie nodded.
"He left Boxed Mac and Cheese on the table and said he'd be right back.
"When I woke up, it was dark outside.
"It stayed dark the whole next day too.
"After that, I stopped counting the days," she whispered.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up the playback footage from the home security cameras.
Night one: Sophie curled up on the sofa and waited until she fell asleep.
She rolled off the couch and crashed her forehead hard into the coffee table.
She clutched her head and sat on the floor for ages, then got up on her own and pressed paper towels to the wound.
Day two: She dragged a stool over to reach the boiled water.
The kettle slid off the edge, and the water spilled all over her arms.
She dropped to her knees in agony, breathing hard, yet not a single sob escaped her.
Day three: Her fever spiked so badly she could barely stand.
She dragged her small stool to face the security camera and called out to me.
"Mommy, I'm a little hot.
"But no worries. Finish your work first. I can take care of myself."
I closed the footage and sprinted to the bathroom to throw up for a long time.
When I came back, Sophie had fallen asleep.
An IV needle stuck out of her hand, and her cheeks flushed bright red from fever.
I stayed by her bedside and saved every second of the surveillance footage to my cloud storage.