Emily
I was eighteen when it happened.
The day my life changed forever. The day I lost my father.
How did it happen?
Well… I blamed myself for it.
I had just gotten accepted into Cambridge. My parents were over the moon. We were driving to college together—my dad behind the wheel, my mom humming to some old Celine Dion track. I remember the way the wind rustled through my hair as I stared out the window, a nervous excitement bubbling in my chest.
We were running a bit late that morning, and I'd forgotten to grab a drink. I was thirsty—unbearably so—and insisted we stop at a gas station. My dad, ever patient, agreed. My mom came down too, said she needed to use the restroom. We left him waiting in the car.
That's when it happened.
As we stepped out of the station, we heard it. A loud, terrifying noise—the kind of sound that tears through your chest and makes the earth tremble beneath your feet. A screech of tires, a metallic crash, and then… silence.
We dashed outside.
I saw it with my own eyes.
A trailer had lost control.
It crashed directly into the parking lot. Into our car.
My dad never stood a chance.
The vehicle was crushed like a soda can. People screamed. My mom fell to the ground in shock, and I… I just stood there, frozen. Watching.
Because I needed a drink. Because I couldn't wait. Because I asked him to stop.
If he hadn't parked there—if we'd just kept going—he would still be alive.
Those were the darkest years of my life. I hated myself. I blamed myself. I spiraled. And when I finally resumed college months later, I wasn't the same girl. The guilt lived in my bones.
I became someone I didn't recognize.
I partied. A lot. I made the worst kind of friends—the reckless, carefree, dangerous kind. I wanted to forget everything. I wanted to feel nothing. I did drugs. I slept around. I was angry at the world. At my mom. At myself.
One of the biggest mistakes I made? Getting pregnant by a stranger at a masked party. I didn't even know his name. Didn't even remember his face.
I didn't know I was pregnant until I was five months in. My periods hadn't stopped, which made no sense—but the doctor said it happens in rare cases. I didn't believe it at first. Thought it was a cruel joke life was playing on me.
I dropped out. Took a year off. Everything was a blur.
But I remember giving birth.
I remember seeing her tiny little feet. Her perfect, wrinkled fingers. Her soft cry.
She was everything I wasn't—pure. Innocent. Good.
And I couldn't be a mother to her.
I was broken. I needed rehabilitation. I needed to get clean. I wanted to keep her—desperately—but I knew I couldn't give her the life she deserved. My so-called friends insisted I give her up for adoption. They were loud, pushy, and I was scared. I caved.
I didn't tell my mom. She didn't even know I was pregnant. For a whole year, I stayed away. She, in her own way, drowned herself in work. That was how she coped with Dad's death—by pretending life was normal. By overworking. By disappearing into office walls and endless spreadsheets.
People grieve differently.
I told the doctors I didn't want to know who she was given to. I made them promise she'd go to a good family. That she'd be loved. That she'd be safe.
I still carry the guilt with me. Every day.
But she—my baby girl—was the wake-up call I needed. I got clean. I got sober. I returned to school. I worked hard. Changed my circle. Changed my life.
Still, something inside me never healed. Until I met George.
He made me feel human again. Seen. Cherished. Whole.
I didn't understand it—how someone like him could love someone as messed up as me. But he did. Fiercely. Deeply.
Until he didn't.
Now, as I sat outside Tami's apartment, curled on the hood of her car with a tear-streaked face and a hollow chest, I couldn't stop the memories from returning in waves.
Tudor didn't even give me a chance to explain.
I should've told him. I should've been honest from the beginning. But I didn't want to scare him away. I didn't want to be judged. I wanted to leave the past buried.
But the past never stays buried.
I've called him so many times now that I'm sure he's blocked me.
"You need to stop calling him," Tami said softly, sliding onto the car next to me. She handed me a hot cup of tea.
I took it wordlessly, mouthing a quiet thank you.
Tami has always been my anchor. Living with her back then was like having a safe haven—warm meals, comforting hugs, someone who just got me without asking too many questions. She was always the chef of the house, and somehow the therapist too.
I placed my fingertips on my temples, overwhelmed. "Tami… I…" My voice broke, and a tear slipped down my cheek.
She took a sip of her tea, eyes steady. "Look, I understand how you feel. But crying won't solve anything."
"Really, Tami?" I gave her a sharp look. "Was that even necessary?"
"What?" She shrugged and lifted her hands. "This happened ten years ago, Em. You were young and hurting. People make mistakes. The media can go screw themselves."
That was Tami—fearless, bold, unapologetic.
She leaned in, voice gentle now. "What you should focus on is what you're going to tell Tudor. He's hurt, yes, but mostly because you didn't trust him enough to tell him the truth. Don't chase him. Let him breathe. And when he comes home—because he will—you tell him everything. A to Z."
She leaned back again, more serious this time. "He loves you, Emily. I know he does. We just need to find out who's trying to ruin your life."
Hours later, I was driving back home. Tami's words ringing in my ears.
But as I turned into my street, I slammed the brakes.
The road was packed—with reporters.
I blinked, confused. No. This couldn't be for me, could it?
But as I got closer, I saw the cameras. The microphones. The banners.
They were definitely here for me.y
I pulled into the driveway and tried to push through the crowd. Shame burned through my skin as the flash of cameras blinded me. I bolted for the front door, heart racing, ears ringing.
But I wasn't fast enough.
"Is it true you not only abandoned your child but don't even know who the father is?" someone shouted.
Another voice pierced the air. "Why did you lie to your husband? Why did you say you've never had a child?"
And then—one final question that cut through me like glass:
"Are you really the murderer they say you are, Millie?"