Chapter 2: The Daughter I Was Losing

I woke up alone.

Adrian’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets already cold. I checked my phone, hoping he’d at least left a message.

Nothing.

I rubbed my tired eyes and sat up. Maybe he’d come home late. Maybe he’d been too busy to call.

I was running out of excuses, even for myself.

Downstairs, I found Sophie at the breakfast table while Isabella braided her hair. They were laughing about something, their heads close together.

I stopped in the doorway.

I used to braid Sophie’s hair before school. I used to be the person she called for whenever she had a nightmare.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning, Mommy,” she replied, barely glancing at me.

Then she turned back to Isabella. “Can you take me shopping today? Daddy promised we’d go somewhere nice.”

“Of course,” Isabella said. “You can pick something special.”

I pulled out a chair. “Could I come with you? We haven’t had much time together lately.”

Sophie’s smile faded. “Why? Aunt Isabella already said she’d take me.”

“I know. I just want to spend some time with you.”

She sighed. “But you’re boring, Mommy. You never buy me the pretty things I want. Aunt Isabella does.”

My hand tightened around my cup.

“I can’t always buy you everything, sweetheart, but I try my best.”

“That’s not enough.”

I looked down at my breakfast. Suddenly, I couldn’t bring myself to take another bite.

Margaret walked in just as Isabella gently touched Sophie’s shoulder.

“Sweetheart, don’t speak to your mother that way,” Isabella said.

Her voice was sweet, but something about her expression made me look away.

“Children know who makes them happy,” Margaret remarked as she sat down. “Perhaps you should stop expecting everyone to appreciate you simply because you’re Adrian’s wife.”

My cheeks burned. I wanted to answer her, but I was too tired to start another argument.

When Adrian arrived, Sophie ran straight to him.

“Daddy! Aunt Isabella is taking me shopping!”

He lifted her into his arms. “Then be good for her.”

I stood beside the table, waiting for him to look my way.

“Adrian, can we talk for a minute?”

“Not now, Clara. We’re leaving.”

“It’ll only take five minutes.”

His smile disappeared. “Please don’t start this again.”

I hadn’t even told him what was wrong.

I wanted to tell him about the hospital. About the diagnosis I still couldn’t accept. Instead, I watched him walk out with Sophie and Isabella.

I stayed home that afternoon, trying to distract myself with orders for my little online bookstore. There weren’t many, but one customer had sent a question about finding a story for a child who felt lonely.

I typed a reply. Then I stopped.

Sometimes, the right story reminds a child that they are loved, even when they feel alone.

I read it again and let out a bitter little laugh.

I could write comforting words for strangers. I just couldn’t seem to make my own daughter feel loved.

I opened my brown notebook and tried to continue the story I’d been working on. The little girl in it lived in a beautiful house, surrounded by people who never noticed when she cried.

I stared at the unfinished page.

For once, I didn’t know how to give her a happy ending.

When Adrian and Sophie returned, Sophie hurried past me with a new dollhouse in her arms.

“Look, Mommy! Aunt Isabella bought this for me!”

“It’s lovely,” I said, managing a smile.

“She’s going to help me decorate it next time.” Sophie hesitated before adding, “Mommy, can Aunt Isabella come to my school event with Daddy? I want her there.”

I swallowed. “Wouldn’t you want me there, too?”

She looked at me as if the answer were obvious.

“But Aunt Isabella makes Daddy happy. You always make him upset.”

I turned toward Adrian. He’d heard her.

He could have corrected her. He could have reminded her that words could hurt, even when you were only a child.

Instead, he sighed.

“Clara, she’s just a child. Don’t take everything personally.”

I stared at him, waiting for something more.

Nothing came.

That evening, I found him in his study.

“Adrian, I need to tell you something about my health.”

He kept his eyes on his phone. “Can it wait? Isabella needs help with something.”

I almost laughed. It was either that or cry.

“Of course,” I said quietly.

He didn’t notice when I left.

Back in our bedroom, I opened my notebook and wrote beneath the unfinished story.

The little girl finally understood that being someone's mother didn't mean she would always be loved in return.

My fingers ached from gripping the pen too tightly.

I closed the notebook and sat there in silence.

Tomorrow, I would try to tell Adrian the truth again. I would make him listen, even if I had to say every word through my tears.

But as I lay down that night, one thought refused to leave me.

I was afraid of dying.

I was even more afraid that my husband and daughter would only realize how much I’d loved them after I was gone.