Chapter 5
After some polite chitchat, I got up to bounce.
It was just a formality anyway—if he didn't remember me, no point digging up the past.
But as I hit the door, he followed and called out, "Emma."
Early on in our relationship, Daniel was always walking on eggshells.
He was scared I'd judge him for taking over the family funeral business, stepping into his dad's shoes.
He'd drop hints about how he studied software engineering in college, like he could ditch the gig or hand it off to someone else anytime.
Every time he came home, he'd hit the shower first, scrubbing his hands with disinfectant like his life depended on it before coming near me.
His money? He'd hand it over—big checks or pocket change—but never cash.
He always deposited, then wired to my phone or bank account.
One evening, I swung by the funeral parlor to pick him up. When he saw me, his face went from shocked to full-on panic mode.
His hands, clean as a whistle, kept wiping at his clothes like he was afraid to touch me.
I laughed a little, stepping in to hug him. "I keep telling you, I don't care about your job. Why do you always freak out like this?"
His arms just hung there, too nervous to hug me back.
He wasn't that scrawny teenager anymore, but deep down, he was still carrying the weight of everyone's judgment, terrified I'd think he was gross.
So when I told him I found his work disgusting and wanted to break up, he didn't seem all that surprised.
We'd been engaged for a year by then.
I'd gone to visit him out of town and, for the first time, walked into his workspace.
I saw him working on a mangled body and bolted outside, hurling my guts out.
He followed, keeping his distance under the moonlight, just standing there, pale as a sheet, not saying a word.
I puked until there was nothing left but stomach acid, sweating like crazy.
When I finally stopped, I looked at him, eyes stinging, and choked out, "I didn't think it'd be that gross."
Daniel just stared from a distance, his face white as a ghost.
He opened his mouth but couldn't get a word out.
His hands shook at his sides, clenching and unclenching, wiping at his clothes before he shoved them in his pockets.
After what felt like forever, I muttered, voice trembling, "Maybe we should just… call it quits."
The silence was deafening.
Finally, Daniel's face went calm, almost blank. He nodded. "Okay."
Then he turned and walked back to his workspace.
He didn't know my parents had passed away.
He didn't know I was pregnant.
After that, I lost the baby, handled my parents' funerals, and moved to Crestwood with my grandma, barely scraping by.
I got a job, started rooming with Isaac, and life was rough.
Three months later, I saw Daniel's social media post—he'd gone public with a new girlfriend.
The next time we crossed paths, I had one month left to live.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling all night.
For the next week or so, Daniel didn't reach out once.
It hit me out of nowhere—I never gave him the PIN for that bank card I handed over.
No matter how I sliced it, he didn't seem serious about taking on my case. He hadn't even added me on WhatsApp.
After chewing it over, I hit up Olivia and got Daniel's number.
To my shock, after five years, he was still using the same one.
Back then, I was the one who blocked him on everything.
His number was still buried in my phone's blacklist.
I pulled it out, wrestled with myself, and finally sucked it up and called.
It took ages for him to answer, and when he did, his voice was cold as ice. "What's up?"
His tone told me he knew it was me.
I kept it civil. "I just remembered about that card—"
He cut me off. "I'm swamped. You got something to say, come say it face-to-face." He tossed me an address and hung up.
After I got out of the hospital, I stopped all those IV drips I'd been hooked on.
Without them, I felt like I was running on fumes, weak as hell.
I dragged myself out of bed, took a few shaky steps.
Getting to that address was gonna be a slog.
I tried calling Daniel again, but he didn't pick up.