I texted Gianna first thing in the morning, told her I was sick, needed to reschedule.
Her response came quickly—worried, asking what was wrong, if I needed anything.
I lied:
Sarah
just a bug, I’ll be fine.
I turned off my phone after that.
The next day I texted again:
Sarah
Still sick, sorry.
The day after that, the same message. By the third day, I’d stopped checking my phone entirely, just let it sit on my kitchen counter screen-down while I stayed in bed and tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do.
I couldn’t tell him. The truth would destroy whatever fragile thing we’d built between us—he’d look at me with the same disgust I’d felt for my father every day of my life.
But I couldn’t keep lying either, couldn’t keep showing up at his home and working with his daughter and acting like I wasn’t carrying this secret that would devastate them both if they knew.
So I stayed in bed, existing in this horrible limbo where every option felt impossible.
On the fourth day, someone knocked on my door.
The knocking came again, more insistent.
“Sarah? It’s us.” Lily’s voice—small, hopeful—cut straight through me.”
My heart stopped.
I stumbled out of bed and crossed to the door, pressing my hand against it. Through the peephole I could see them: Hector holding bags, Lily clutching a stuffed animal I recognized from her room.
“Are you in there?” Hector’s voice was gentle. “Lily was worried. We brought soup.”
I looked down at myself—hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday, my hair was a disaster, eyes were probably red and swollen from crying.
But Lily was on the other side of this door, and I couldn’t hide from her forever.
I opened it.
Hector’s face changed when he saw me, his eyebrows drawing together and his eyes widening slightly as they scanned my face like he was checking every problem.
“Jesus, Sarah.” His voice wasn’t judgment—it was concern, which somehow felt worse.
“I look that good?” My voice came out hoarse, brittle.
Lily didn’t wait for permission—she pushed past her father and threw her arms around my waist, pressing her face into my stomach. “You didn’t answer my texts. I got scared.”
The guilt was immediate and sharp. I’d been so consumed by my own horror that I hadn’t thought about what my silencewould do to an eight-year-old who’d already lost too many people.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should have responded.” I hugged her back even though every part of me wanted to pull away, to put distance between myself and this child whose mother my father had killed.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Hector asked. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I’m fine, just a bug.”
