Until thirteen years ago.
It was a Tuesday evening in late November. The house smelled of roasting garlic and pine from the early Christmas decorations I had just put up. Victor was in the shower, the heavy oak door of the master bathroom slightly ajar. I could hear him humming a careless, off-key tune, the sound of a man completely unburdened by conscience. His phone, a sleek silver device he usually guarded like nuclear launch codes, lay abandoned on the mahogany nightstand.
It illuminated with a soft, persistent buzz.
I leaned over, expecting a mundane business alert from his COO or a reminder about an upcoming golf tournament. Instead, a message preview glowed starkly against the darkened room.
“The baby is healthy. He has your eyes. When are you coming to see me?”
In that single, catastrophic heartbeat, the universe as I knew it ceased to exist.
The air vanished from my lungs. A cold, metallic ringing erupted in my ears, drowning out the sound of the running water. I felt a surge of acidic bile rise in my throat, hot and violent. My hands trembled so violently that I almost dropped the device as I swiped the screen, my thumb acting on a primal autopilot. The passcode was his mother’s birthday—a testament to his lack of imagination.
