It’s been two years since our world ended.
Two years since the silence became unbearable. Since breathing felt like a betrayal of the one we lost — our child. Our bright, beautiful child, gone in an instant.
I remember everything.
The phone call.
My hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the keys.
The drive to the hospital, filled with silent screams.
Then the doctor’s face — and the words that weren’t really words, just a hole opening in the universe.
My partner was already there, shattered. We clung to each other like survivors in wreckage, trying to understand how reality could collapse so completely. How this could be real.
The days that followed blurred together. Grief isn’t a wave — it’s an ocean that never recedes. A constant pressure on your chest, every second of every day. We moved through it together, exchanging haunted looks, unable to say what hurt too much to speak.
Slowly, painfully, we rebuilt something resembling a life. Not a new one — just a modified existence.
We talked about our child constantly, keeping them alive in memory. We cooked their favorite meals. Walked through their favorite park. We even adopted a small, fluffy pet, desperate to bring a flicker of life back into the house.
My partner became my anchor.
When I couldn’t get out of bed, they pulled me up.
When I broke down in public, they held me.
We made promises — to honor our child by living, by finding meaning again, together.
Our bond felt forged in fire. Stronger than before. We had faced the worst possible loss and survived it side by side.
Or so I believed.
Because there was always something I couldn’t quite silence.
The official report called it an accident. Tragic. Unavoidable. And I accepted that explanation because I had to. Questioning it felt dangerous — like tugging at the one thread holding my sanity together.
But late at night, doubts crept in.
A detail that didn’t line up.
A memory that felt off.
A flicker in my partner’s eyes when that day came up.
I buried it every time. This is grief, I told myself. Grief makes you suspicious.
Still, the doubt lingered.
Not suspicion — not yet. Just a need to know. Not to assign blame, but to find peace. Closure.
Three weeks ago, without telling my partner, I hired a private investigator.
Just to confirm the accident really was an accident.
Yesterday, my phone rang.
An unknown number.
“We need to meet,” the investigator said. His voice was grave. “Immediately.”
My stomach dropped. The air vanished from my lungs.
No. Please. Not again.
We met in a quiet coffee shop, tucked away from noise and eyes. He didn’t soften the blow. He placed a thick file on the table.
The first photo showed my partner’s car, timestamped, captured by a traffic camera a few blocks from the accident.
“Nothing unusual,” I said, desperate.
He shook his head.
“We cross-checked traffic footage, cell-tower data, and witness statements. Your partner told police they were focused on the road. That sun glare caused the distraction.”
My heart pounded.
“The glare wasn’t as severe as reported,” he continued. “And they weren’t focused on the road.”
He slid a call log toward me.
Repeated calls. Texts. Minutes before the crash.
The name at the top wasn’t mine.
A woman’s name I didn’t recognize.
Cold dread settled in my bones.
“Your partner has been having an affair,” he said calmly. “Over a year. A colleague.”
Betrayal crashed over me — the comfort, the shared grief, the promises — suddenly tainted.
But he wasn’t finished.
“At the exact moment of the accident,” he said, pointing to the timestamps, “they weren’t distracted by sunlight.”
They were texting. Arguing. Threatening messages. Missed calls stacked on top of each other.
“They barely looked up,” he said. “The car drifted. Control was lost.”
My vision blurred.
“When your child needed their full attention,” he finished, “your partner was looking at their phone… fighting with their mistress.”
The world went silent.
It wasn’t fate.
It wasn’t an unavoidable tragedy.
It was preventable.
Our child didn’t die in an accident.
They died because of carelessness. Because of betrayal.
And the person responsible was the same one who held me while I cried. Who built a future with me on shared grief. Who let me believe we were healing together.
They didn’t just betray me.
They destroyed our child’s life — and let me mourn in the dark.
I sat there numb, the coffee untouched. Every tear, every hug, every promise now felt staged. A performance I didn’t know I was part of.
I don’t even know what to call this pain anymore.
It’s not grief.
It’s annihilation.
