Chapter 2

The next day was Sunday. Pastor Miller met me at the church entrance. His face was a mixture of pity and disapproval.

"Sarah, my child. We need to talk."

He led me to his office, the air thick with the smell of old books and lemon polish.

"Your mother-in-law is very concerned. The whole community is. This anger... it's not healthy. A wife's duty is to her husband, to her family."

"Save your sermons, Pastor," I said, my voice empty. "I'm not here for counseling."

"But your soul, Sarah. After the tragedy of your miscarriage... it's understandable to be lost. But lashing out at a pregnant, grieving woman?"

I just looked at him. He didn't know tragedy. He didn't know anything.

Later that evening, "Mike" came into the nursery. I had been standing there for an hour, just staring at the empty crib. The one I had built with the real Mike, screw by screw.

"We need to talk," he said, his tone softer now. It was the voice he used when he was trying to manipulate me.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I know you're hurting."

I didn't answer.

"Look, I was thinking," he continued, "after Brenda's baby comes, things will settle down. I'll buy you that new car you wanted. We can take a trip. Just get away from all this."

He was trying to buy my silence. To make me forget.

He walked over to the crib. "This isn't helping, Sarah. We need to move on."

Before I could react, he pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket and started methodically taking the crib apart. The screech of the screws being undone was the only sound in the room. He was dismantling the last physical piece of my hope, of my baby.

I watched him, my body completely still. The pain was so sharp it felt like ice in my veins. But my face showed nothing.

When he finished, the pieces of the beautiful white crib lay in a pile on the floor.

"There," he said, wiping his hands. "A fresh start."

I finally turned to look at him, my eyes clear and cold.

"Get out of my house."

"It's my house too, Sarah."

"Not for long," I said. "Get out."