All these years, Julian and Ramona treated me as true family, as one of their own. They gave me warmth, gave me something to hold onto, showed me what home could feel like. So seven years ago, when Julian suggested I marry Max, I agreed.
I told myself it didn't matter that Max didn't love me. It didn't matter that there was no romance between us. If I was good to him, kept the house running smoothly, gave him children—surely, someday, he would see my devotion. Surely he would soften, even just a little.
I told myself that even without love, even with a life that was merely ordinary, as long as I had my two precious daughters, as long as I could watch them grow—my life would have meaning. It wouldn't have been lived in vain.
I poured everything into my children, into this home. Max was rarely there. His heart belonged to Gretchen. I swallowed it. I accepted it.
But never—never—did I imagine that all my patience, all my hoping, would lead to this.
My two baby girls. The treasures I'd cradled in my palms for five years. Their own father signed them away to hell, where they were tortured to death.