The Wife Who Buried Our Child

ered around the small plot of earth. It was the day of my daughter Lily's funeral. My

as on

y arm with a gloved hand. Her face was a mask of sorro

ce thick with fake sympathy. "She probably couldn'

. I looked at the small, white casket. Too

Sarah, wa

h grief. I wanted to believe them. I needed

felt like a home. It was her family's house, a constant reminder tha

ybe in Lily's, crying. I needed to hold h

house wa

her name.

ow murmur coming from the back patio. I walked

he was standing with her back to me, a phone pressed to her ear. She wasn

imate purr. "I miss you too. I wanted to be wi

x-boyfriend. The one she alway

nued, her tone shifting, becoming h

leaned closer, my ear near the opening,

n existed. Her birth was an accident anyway.

ccid

ve Lily, who fought her illnes

in the hospital bed, telling me, "Don'

n. I gripped the door fr

s that shattered m

. That was just for David's benefit. It was for euthanasia. It was q

o

No

in the States. I had worked day and night in the lab, perfecti

ere more advanced. She had looked me in the eye, her own filled with what I though

ed our savings, cashed in my st

ken my daughte

thought his work could save her. And all that money he spent... it w

carefree, echoed from the patio. It w

from the side garden. It was

?" Jessica asked, her voice low

es, with Lily gone, and David out of the picture soon, we can finally be tog

in my pocket buzze

can't face our house right no

he was hanging up the phone, a triumphant

hould hold him

t in the reflection on the glas

en cold, hard calculation. She slid the door open, h

red, her voice brea

or her, the life we had built, the grief I thought we shared-it all turned to ash in