At the scene of the crash, a man was holding my father's body, his cries raw and torn from his soul. My mother's lips parted in confusion. Then, a bitter, knowing smile touched her lips as she drew her last breath. After the funeral, the house was filled with relatives, all of them wearing troubled expressions. No one wanted to take me home. I sat in the yard, ten years old, praying over and over for my mom and dad to come back to life. The man from the crash site pushed open the gate. His eyes were steady as he declared, "I'll raise Rose." The relatives erupted. They pointed at him, their faces twisted with disgust. "And what are you going to be to her? Her new mommy, or her new daddy?" 1 The man's name was Aidan, a name that sounded soft, almost feminine. But he was a man. A genuine, bona fide man. My father's high school yearbook, which he flipped through countless times, was filled with photos of the two of them. They were just kids then, in the green, tender years of youth. The affection in their eyes was innocent, naive. Nothing to raise an eyebrow. My mother had suspected every woman in my father’s orbit, a list that included, but was not limited to, the old ladies from the neighborhood who played bingo on Tuesdays. But she never found a single trace of an affair. She would straddle my father, a wild look in her eyes, slapping his face, then her own. She’d break down, sobbing, demanding to know who the "other woman" was. Who was she? No one knew. My father had hidden that person away so well. He was willing to lose everything—leave with nothing but the clothes on his back, ruin his reputation, be scorned by everyone—rather than reveal a single detail about them. It was this stubborn, self-proclaimed sense of honor that finally pushed my mother over the edge. One night, she dragged me out of bed. The snow was falling outside, the winter air biting cold, but she didn’t care. She didn't care that I was wearing nothing but my underwear. She threw open the window and shoved me toward the edge. She told my father that if he didn't name that woman, she would push me from the fifth-floor window. Then, she said, the family would be truly and utterly destroyed. And it would be all his fault. 2 My father stared numbly at my mother, at her desperate, crazed face. His gaze flickered to me, a flash of pain and love in his eyes. A moment of hesitation. But it was only a moment. He turned away, his expression resolute. He pulled a duffel bag from the closet and began to pack, his movements stiff and mechanical. My mother snatched me back from the window in a panic. I scrambled into the bedroom and buried myself under the covers, my body wracked with sneezes. The door to their room slammed shut. The walls in our old apartment were thin. I lay there, my eyes wide open, staring at the door. My mother’s hysterical sobs echoed through the wood. "What did I do wrong? Tell me, and I'll change. I can change." My father sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion and resignation. "You're a good person, Sarah. It's me. I'm the problem." "If you're the problem, then just die! Why are you divorcing me? I will never let you destroy this family." Then, silence. I listened for a long, long time, but heard nothing. Fear, cold and sharp, coiled in my stomach. My heart hammered against my ribs. I threw on the first clothes I could find and fumbled with their doorknob. My father was lying on the floor, as still and lifeless as a fish washed ashore. My mother was tearing at his clothes, her kisses, mingled with tears and snot, landing on his chest like frantic, desperate pleas. When he saw me, a wave of shame washed over his face. He pushed her off and turned away to straighten his clothes. He stood up, his face a blank mask, and picked up his bag. He patted my head, a light, fleeting touch, and then he walked out the door. Without a shred of hesitation. His expression never changed. He was calm, unmovable, weathering my mother’s storm of pleas and threats with a quiet resolve. This was a departure he had planned for, and longed for, for a very long time. I knew, as he stepped over that threshold, that he would never come back. And deep down, I think my mother knew it too. But knowing, and accepting, are two very different things. 3 I had actually met Aidan long before the funeral. Not in the black-and-white photos of the yearbook, but in the breakroom of the factory where my dad worked. They were laughing, their eyes reflecting the pure, unadulterated happiness they found in each other's company. I didn't understand what that look meant back then. I only knew that when my dad was with Aidan, he was happy. And when he was happy, the comic books I wanted were suddenly mine. Aidan would buy me all sorts of treats, too. I really liked him back then. My mother knew of Aidan, but she was dismissive of him. In her eyes, he was a man in his forties with no wife, no real job, just a dead-end dream of being a musician. A man like that had to have a few screws loose. She'd even told my dad to spend less time with him, worried his lack of ambition might be contagious. My dad would always respond with an awkward silence. And my mother, seeing no point in fighting over someone so insignificant, would let it drop. It wasn't worth risking an argument that might sour her own marriage. But no one could have ever imagined that my father, after more than a decade of marriage, had been in love with a man the entire time. The first time my grandfather heard me mention Aidan's name, he just stood there, stunned, for what felt like an eternity. Then, a furious argument erupted between him and my father, who was in the middle of making dinner. It ended with my grandfather having a heart attack and being rushed to the hospital. My father was run ragged during that time, shuttling between home and the hospital. My mother, worried sick, rushed back from her training seminar out of town, giving up a promotion. My father was withdrawn for a long time after that. I don't know what my grandfather said to him behind closed doors after he was discharged, but I never saw Aidan visit again for a long, long time. My father spent more and more time staring into space, his eyes always drifting to the mailbox with a flicker of hope, only to sigh in disappointment when he found it empty. Day after day, the light in his eyes dimmed. And the look my mother gave him grew darker and more suspicious. They had the biggest fight of their lives, a screaming match that only ended when Aidan showed up and somehow managed to calm them both down. That incident actually changed my mother's opinion of Aidan. She decided he wasn't such a bad guy after all. 4 After that day, Aidan wasn't just a regular in the factory breakroom; he started coming over for dinner. My mother, suddenly the gracious hostess, would insist he join them whenever she cooked something special. She was just so relieved that my father was back to his old, cheerful self. In her mind, a deadbeat friend was a far safer bet than a secret mistress. An unambitious buddy was a threat she could manage. She even offered to set Aidan up with a girlfriend. The atmosphere at the dinner table immediately went cold. "Can you just stay out of other people's business?" my dad snapped. Aidan, looking mortified, excused himself and left, his bowl still half-full. My dad got up and followed him out. My mother was left alone to clear the table, hurt and confused. She couldn't understand what she'd said that was so wrong. She was just trying to be nice. Later, when I went downstairs to take out the trash, I saw them in a shadowed corner of the alley. My father and Aidan, holding each other in a tight, desperate embrace. That was the moment I knew. I was young, but I wasn't stupid. My father had never, ever held my mother with that kind of gentle, protective tenderness. When I got back upstairs, my mother was reading a novel. I sat beside her, my heart pounding, trying to figure out how to tell her. The book was about a woman whose husband was having an affair with her best friend. Everyone knew, except for the wife. Just then, my father walked in. My mother, whether intentionally or not, said aloud, "If I were this man's wife, I'd kill them both. I'd chop those two bastards to pieces." My father sat down, his face a perfect mask of indifference, though I saw the flash of panic in his eyes. The words I was about to say died in my throat. My father was cheating with a man. My mother could become a murderer. Between those two realities, the thought of my mother spending the rest of her life in prison was the one I couldn't bear. So, at ten years old, I decided I had to talk to my father. I had to convince him to end it with Aidan. 5 But before I could stage my intervention, the news of the divorce came. The war that night ended, temporarily, with my father's departure. The divorce proceedings were then put on hold by my grandfather's sudden death from a heart attack. My mother, while nursing the heartbreak of her husband leaving her, had to somehow find the strength to arrange the funeral. I watched her, her eyes perpetually swollen from crying, while my father moved through the motions with a numb, almost relieved expression. My grandfather must have known about Aidan, I realized. All I could feel was a profound sorrow for my mother. Dad and Aidan must have known each other since high school. Last month, the uncle of a kid in the class next to mine was caught with another man. His family beat him half to death. He disappeared for three days. They found his body in the park lake, swollen and bloated. People talked about it in hushed, fearful whispers, as if the topic itself was a disease. Maybe… maybe my grandfather had torn my dad and Aidan apart all those years ago, too. After the funeral, my mother put me on the back of my aunt's bicycle and told her to take me to school. Then she got into a car with my father, slamming the door shut behind her. I had only been in class for one period when my aunt burst in, frantically pulling me out of my seat. My parents had been in a car accident. My aunt, her face pale with panic, threw me onto the back of her bike and pedaled with all her might back the way we came. The crash site was already cordoned off. The rain was coming down so hard it felt like the world was ending. My father had died instantly. My mother's leg was pinned in the wreckage. A crowd of people were trying to free her. When Aidan arrived, he threw himself onto my father's body, sobbing, refusing to let anyone take him away. He cried with a raw, helpless desperation that was more than just the grief of a friend. It was the heart-wrenching agony of a lover who has lost everything. The adults standing around understood immediately. Their faces filled with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. My mother, who had been weeping in pain and sorrow, saw Aidan's reaction and her expression turned to one of pure confusion. I knelt beside her. She struggled to lift her hand to touch my face, her eyes full of a love that tore at my heart. "I'm so sorry, Rose. That night… I can't believe I pushed you toward the window." I shook my head. It was okay. She was just angry. "I'm so tired," she whispered. "But I don't want to die. My daughter is still so little. She needs someone to take care of her. But, Rose… I don't think I can hold on." Her eyelids grew heavy. She looked past me, at Aidan, and murmured, "So… it was him." A bitter, self-mocking smile touched her lips, and with a final, deep look of unwillingness, she was gone. I knelt in the rain, a silent, choked sob caught in my throat. A heavy stone had settled in my chest, and I couldn't breathe. Even at ten, I knew what death meant. 6 The relatives arranged the funeral. I was a puppet, moved from one task to another. After it was all over, they sat in the makeshift funeral hall, each lost in their own thoughts. My aunt took me out to the yard and told me to wait, not to wander off. I saw Aidan hovering nervously outside the hall and nodded. The arguments inside started quietly, but within five minutes, they had escalated into a full-blown shouting match. My uncle's voice was first. "We already have three kids. I broke my leg last year and haven't had a steady income since. I can't take her." Then my aunt's, loud and self-righteous. "I can't either! I'm transferring to Chicago soon. What am I supposed to do with a half-grown kid?" Then, another aunt's voice. "If I take Rose, you're all still her family. You'll each have to give me three hundred dollars a month." That set my uncle off. "Are you trying to rob us? Are you even human?" She shot back, "Oh, shut up! You think you're a saint?" Three hundred dollars was a lot of money. My parents' combined monthly salary had barely been more than that. The argument quickly devolved from my future to personal attacks. You're poor, I'm ugly, he's cruel, you're selfish… They hurled the most vicious words they could think of, targeting each other's deepest insecurities. Soon, the shouting turned to shoving, and the sound of crashing chairs and tables filled the air. I looked up at the gray, oppressive sky and cried silently. Dad, Mom, please come back. Rose misses you so much. Aidan appeared above me, his face gaunt and exhausted. He gently wiped the tears from my cheeks, then walked with determined steps into the house. "I'll adopt Rose!" Everyone fell silent, staring at him, trying to process what he'd just said. When it sank in, their eyes filled with scorn and contempt. My aunt spoke, her voice dripping with ice. "And what are you going to be to her? Her new mommy, or her new daddy?" Aidan flinched, a look of shame crossing his face. "You all have your own difficulties. I have the time and the money. I can give Rose a good life." I stood behind him, looking up at his thin, straight back. In my mind, he was the one who had destroyed my home. But now, he was the only one who wanted me. Perhaps it was the fear of gossip, or maybe some shred of familial duty remained. They didn't let Aidan take me. A compromise was reached. My eldest aunt would take me in, and my other aunt and uncle would each give her thirty dollars a month for my upkeep. As I was leaving, Aidan slipped a piece of paper into my pocket. It had his address and the number for a public phone. "If you ever need anything, call me. Or just come find me. I'll always be there." With all the bravado a ten-year-old could muster, I spat, "I never want to see you again. I hate you!" 7 My aunt had two sons, both much older than me. From the moment I arrived, their dislike was a palpable thing. They didn't try to hide their resentment. I wasn't allowed to eat at the table with them. I wasn't allowed to use the main bathroom. I didn't have my own bed. I wasn't allowed to speak. At first, my aunt would scold them. But soon, she just stopped noticing. Habit is a terrifying thing. I slept on a thin mat in a cramped corner of the balcony. It was too cold to sleep most nights. I would just lie there, staring out at the dark sky, imagining that if my parents were still alive, I would be tucked into a warm bed, listening to my mother read me a story. But they were dead. And it was all Aidan's fault. My hatred for him grew with each passing day. My aunt worked at a diner on the corner, and my uncle was a small-time contractor. They were always busy. So busy that there was never any breakfast in the morning. My cousins got money for breakfast, but I didn't. When I tried to make something for myself, they called me a thieving, greedy little rat. They hated me so much they wouldn't even let me in the kitchen. No one walked me to school. I had to wake up at five-thirty and run the whole way to avoid being late. During gym class one day, I fainted from low blood sugar. In the nurse's office, my teacher looked at me with a helpless expression. "I've been trying to call your parents' work numbers, but no one is picking up. We need to get them to come and take you for a check-up." I shook my head. "I'm sorry, teacher. My parents died in a car accident. The school's contact list hasn't been updated." The teacher was silent for a long time. When she spoke again, her voice was thick with unshed tears. "Who do you live with now?"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "386736", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel