The Eighteen-Year Lie

Name: The Eighteen-Year Lie
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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For eighteen years, I've been told a lie. My husband, Mark, my doctors, even my own parents, convinced me I suffered from a delusional disorder, that my deep ache for a daughter named Emily was just a symptom. They said I only had one child, my sweet son Ethan. Yet, I always felt a part of me was missing. Then, on Ethan's wedding day, a tarnished silver locket tumbled out from under my bed – the very one I gave my daughter, Emily, for her fifth birthday, the day she vanished. The fog of medication burned away, replaced by searing clarity. Emily was real. Mark had lied. I stormed into the wedding reception, publicly accusing him of murder, of burying Emily under our oak tree. But instead of finding justice, I was dragged away by the police, deemed delusional, and forcibly committed to a psychiatric facility. There, Mark and my parents finally 'confessed' a horrifying truth: Emily died in a car crash I caused, and her memory was erased from my mind to 'protect' me. Wracked with grief and guilt, I visited Emily's supposed grave. But how could a daughter I'd barely remembered, who allegedly died eighteen years ago, still whisper 'Save me' in my dreams? And why did her headstone, beneath an ancient oak, look... disturbingly new? My bare hands clawed through the earth until they struck wood. The small casket, still pristine. Not decaying, not old. And utterly, horrifyingly empty. Emily isn't dead. My daughter is alive, and Mark, my husband, is a monster. The fight for Emily has just begun.

Family Mystery Suspense Betrayal Revenge

Chapter 10

06-21 14:07

Introduction

For eighteen years, I've been told a lie.

My husband, Mark, my doctors, even my own parents, convinced me I suffered from a delusional disorder, that my deep ache for a daughter named Emily was just a symptom.

They said I only had one child, my sweet son Ethan.

Yet, I always felt a part of me was missing.

Then, on Ethan's wedding day, a tarnished silver locket tumbled out from under my bed – the very one I gave my daughter, Emily, for her fifth birthday, the day she vanished.

The fog of medication burned away, replaced by searing clarity.

Emily was real.

Mark had lied.

I stormed into the wedding reception, publicly accusing him of murder, of burying Emily under our oak tree.

But instead of finding justice, I was dragged away by the police, deemed delusional, and forcibly committed to a psychiatric facility.

There, Mark and my parents finally 'confessed' a horrifying truth: Emily died in a car crash I caused, and her memory was erased from my mind to 'protect' me.

Wracked with grief and guilt, I visited Emily's supposed grave.

But how could a daughter I'd barely remembered, who allegedly died eighteen years ago, still whisper 'Save me' in my dreams?

And why did her headstone, beneath an ancient oak, look... disturbingly new?

My bare hands clawed through the earth until they struck wood.

The small casket, still pristine.

Not decaying, not old.

And utterly, horrifyingly empty.

Emily isn't dead.

My daughter is alive, and Mark, my husband, is a monster.

The fight for Emily has just begun.