Chapter 20
tragedy repeating itself
Cecily
I know something is wrong the moment he walks into the sunroom and sits on the couch across from me.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even fidget.
Ethan has that look—the one that always makes my heart sink. It’s the same look he wore when he fell off his bike as a little boy, or when some classmate’s words cut deeper than they should have.
But this isn’t that. This is the kind of hurt that makes a mother feel helpless before she even knows why
He sits there for a long moment, shoulders drawn tight, like he’s searching for the right way to begin.
“Mom,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands, “I… heard you and Grandpa talking that last day in Stone Ridge. Behind the cabin.”
My breath catches before he even says the rest. I know exactly which conversation he means—and yet, I cling to the hope that maybe he didn’t hear enough.
That maybe the wind, or the crackle of the fire, or mercy itself had drowned out the worst of it.
But then his voice breaks through the silence again.
“He was talking about you… about you thinking better of the divorce,” he says quietly. “You said you’d had that conversation before and hadn’t changed your mind.”
He swallows hard, his voice barely steady.
“Then you said… Da—he… the woman he was with… she’s pregnant. It’s his, isn’t it? He’s going to have another child.”
Suddenly, the room feels too small. The air simply vanishes.
“I wish you hadn’t heard that,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I wish I could take that moment back.”
Because after everything that happened almost a month ago, he should never have had to know that such a possibility even existed. That another child, another betrayal, had almost become our reality.
Colin waits until Alicia disappears upstairs.
Then he turns toward me, cautious, like he’s walking on broken glass.
“Cecily,” he says, “can we talk for a minute? Maybe in my—” He catches himself. “In the office?”
I should say no. The last thing I want is to hear anything else that might break me.
But I nod anyway.
I walk ahead and stop at the office door. I haven’t set foot in this room once since he destroyed what was left of us.
I steady myself, inhale slowly, and push the door open.
Colin follows, closing it behind him.
I stay near the doorway—close enough to leave if I have to—while he moves to the center of the room.
He stands there, eyes flicking toward me and away again.
“Maya… lost the baby yesterday,” he says at last.
For a moment, I can’t think. I just stare at him. Then it sinks in.
I feel the relief first, sharp and too much to handle all at once. But then the shame follows, turning my stomach before I can even catch my breath.
“I hate that my first reaction is relief,” I whisper, forcing the admission out. “Almost… satisfaction. It makes me feel sick.”
He flinches.
“Cecily—”
“No,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “This is what all of this has turned me into—someone who feels relief when another woman loses a child. An innocent life ends, and I’m glad.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to make it better.
Maybe because he finally understands there’s nothing left he can fix.
I press a hand to my mouth, battling the urge to be sick.
“But the worst part?” I choke on the words.
“It’s not wishing things were different.
It’s knowing I won’t have to see that heartbreak in our children’s eyes.
I won’t have to watch their world collapse all over again when they find out you were going to have a child with another woman.
Not now that this child doesn’t exist anymore. ”
I let out a breath that shudders in my chest.
“And I don’t even recognize myself anymore,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the confession. “Am I still a decent person?”
“That’s not who you are. Don’t say that. You have more heart than anyone I’ve ever met,” he says firmly. “But me? You don’t even want to know what my reaction was.”
He looks away, unable to hold my gaze.
I don’t ask.
“So what now?” I manage to say. “Is it really over? Or do I need to brace myself for something worse?”
“There’s nothing else,” he says. he says. He tries for a firm tone, but his conviction falters. “I promise. She’s gone from the company. Soon she won’t be able to touch us at all.”
I nod once, my expression cool and unmoved.
“I’d really like to believe you,” I breathe, “but I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”
He lowers his eyes, and I almost feel sorry for him. But after everything, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust him again.
Not in any way that matters.
I look at Ethan and take a long, steadying breath before I speak.
“She… the woman your father was involved with lost the baby. Miscarriages are… unfortunately common.”
Ethan watches me for a moment, saying nothing.
“So the baby’s gone?” he asks. There’s a small note of hope in his voice, one that he’s clearly trying to hide.
I nod. The words don’t come, so I just let the silence confirm it.
He exhales loudly, digs his fingers into the back of his neck, pulling at a tension that makes him look years older.
“Good,” he says at last, but the word wavers, like he’s still trying to convince himself it’s true.
“I don’t think a woman who did what she did would’ve been a good mother,” he adds. There’s an edge in his voice now, bitter and hard. “And now he won’t get to ruin another child’s life.”
I look away. The truth in his voice is a wound I don’t know how to touch, let alone mend.
I sit beside him and gently brush the hair from his forehead. He needs a haircut, but I don’t mention it. These days, I let him keep control over whatever he can.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” I whisper. “She can’t interfere with our family ever again.”
He looks at me, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why not?”
“Because she’s out of our lives for good.” My tone leaves no room for questions. “Do you trust me?”
He nods.
I press a kiss to his temple. My brave boy, trying so hard to hold everything together when he shouldn’t have to.
The last few weeks have felt like being dropped into someone else’s life. A life where my father had an affair with Maya’s mother, and I had to watch my mother fall apart in front of me. Followed by Colin telling me about the miscarriage.
And then… Maya’s arrest.
I feel like a character in one of those novels I’ve always loved.
Except here, the pain isn’t a plot point, there’s no guarantee of a happy ending on the last page and no promises of healing.
I keep wondering what kind of author writes a story like this…
and whether she’ll ever let her heroine rest.
Or if my life is destined to remain one endless, aching cliffhanger.
Maya’s arrest still rattles me. The thought that selfishness, rage, and obsession can eat a person alive from the inside until all that remains is the need to destroy whatever still stands around them.
And the fact that she used the money from selling those confidential documents to pay for something as cruel as that article—it feels as though Colin himself financed our ruin.
When I found out Mark was the one behind the discovery, anger and fear surged through me all at once. He’d promised he wouldn’t take any risks, had looked me in the eye the day that article was published and sworn he’d stay out of it.
But he assured me his name was nowhere in the report, that he’d only given Colin what couldn’t compromise him, along with the directions the IT department needed to follow the trail he’d already uncovered.
Or, as Mark put it, “Making them actually do the job they’re paid for—instead of signing up for another shiny new dating app.”
I don’t know what will happen to Maya now. Prison. Rehabilitation. A new chapter, or just the same tragedy repeating itself.
I only pray our paths never cross again—not even as a headline.
I squeeze Ethan’s hand gently, grounding us both.
“How have your first therapy sessions been?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
“Good,” he admits after a pause. “I didn’t think I’d like it. I barely talked in the first two sessions. But Alan’s nice. He’s the one who convinced me to ask you about… you know.”
I give him a tight smile.
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize you knew. I should’ve seen it after we got back from Stone Ridge—you seemed so closed off.”
Ethan shakes his head. “No. I was being stupid. And for a while… I wanted to pretend I never heard that conversation. But now it doesn’t matter. It’s over.”
I nod, asking him to share a little more about his sessions, only what he wants to, no pressure.
When I accompany them to the clinic, I always make a point to talk to Alan and to Patricia—Alicia’s therapist—before we leave. Same schedule every week. It’s our new routine, a patient effort to fix what was broken.
Alicia is still more withdrawn than before. There’s a seriousness in her now that she’s too young for. She’s changing in invisible ways, too. Changes that scare me because I’m powerless to stop them.
She doesn’t call me Mommy anymore.
Now it’s just Mom.
I know she isn’t punishing me—she’s just growing, grieving in her own way—but I miss the version of her who used to say it. Part of me wishes she’d stay my little girl forever.
Her clothes have changed too. The last time we went shopping, she chose only dark colors, claiming anything else was “too babyish.”
Now it’s jeans, band T-shirts she discovered through friends at her new school, and white sneakers she customizes herself with the colorful markers we bought that day. Small bursts of color, tiny rebellions making them a little more hers.
But one moment that day cut straight through me.
When I offered to stop by her favorite stationery store—the one where we always bought stickers and gel pens for her diary—she just shook her head.
“I don’t really use my diary anymore,” she said.
When I asked why, she only shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “There’s nothing worth writing in it anymore.”
I brought it up with Patricia, and she assured me that changes like these are common with age, especially in children who’ve been through trauma. Not normal, exactly. But understandable.
Alicia has even started talking about quitting ballet. But after her last session, she said she’d keep going. For now.
Therapy is helping. It’s slow, invisible work, but I have to believe she’s finding her way back.
I still haven’t found a therapist for myself. Or maybe… I’m avoiding it.
Because I’m terrified that saying these things out loud will drag me back. Back to the mornings when just breathing hurt.
Back to the version of myself who survived only because of Alicia and Ethan. Only because their hearts needed mine to keep beating.