I Died for My Daughter, Then He Sealed My Fate

Before I could even think, I flung a glass of water right at Chiara’s face. The liquid splashed across her, drenching her hair and coat. She gasped, staggering backward, while her daughter Lella began wailing beside her.

That was the moment the door swung open.

A tall figure stepped in, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. “What’s going on here?”

Damian. Of course. He always seemed to appear at the exact moment she needed rescuing.

The instant he entered, Chiara’s expression shifted. Her eyes reddened, and she clutched her daughter as if the world had wronged her, trembling violently.

“I just wanted to take Clara out for dinner,” she stammered, her voice quivering. “I don’t even know what I did wrong. She got angry and… and told someone to hurt my child…”

The little girl pointed directly at me, sobbing, “Bad woman! You bully my mom! I hate you! I hate you! You killed your own child!”

I froze. My throat constricted so tightly I could barely breathe. Before I could respond, Damian’s face darkened. He stepped between us, his posture protective, as though I were the threat.

“You’ve had a child before, Clara!” His words sliced through me like ice. “Why can’t you show even a little kindness to another one?”

The blow hit harder than any slap could.

Yes, I’d had a child—my baby, my little girl who used to squeal with delight whenever Damian tossed her in the air. The girl he once cradled so gently, placing soft kisses on my forehead and whispering, “Thank you for completing my life.”

And then he destroyed everything.

Voices rose behind him.

“Isn’t that Clara? The one who went to prison?”

“She used to boast about being a brilliant doctor. Couldn’t even save her own kid.”

“Imagine… killing your own daughter. What a monster.”

I looked up to see a few of his colleagues entering, their eyes fixed on me. I didn’t try to defend myself; why bother? Words were meaningless.

Damian’s voice dropped to a cold, sharp edge. “Go home. Stop making a scene.”

Chiara smoothed her dress, wiped her tears, and began greeting his colleagues as if she were the lady of the house.

I grabbed Mara by the wrist before she could speak, pulling her toward the exit. I said nothing. My face was numb.

As we left, I caught Damian’s gaze flicker toward me. For a brief moment, something like humanity, maybe regret, passed over his expression as he glimpsed the scars on my arms. But he stayed silent.

After dropping Mara off, I bought balloons, candles, and small toys, then hailed a taxi to the cemetery.

---

When I finally saw the grave, my knees nearly buckled beneath me.

Weeds had overtaken the area. The soil was cracked and neglected. No one had visited—not even once.

Then I noticed it.

Two words, scrawled in red paint across the tombstone: bastard.

I froze, my chest tightening, vision blurring. I stumbled forward, rubbing frantically at the paint with my bare hands, crying out her name. “No… no… no…”

The paint refused to budge. It blended with my blood, turning the word darker, sharper, more grotesque.

I scrubbed until my palms split open. Until I gasped for air. Until I fell to my knees and screamed into the sky.

Then the rain came—cold, relentless, soaking me to the bone.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, crying, screaming, scrubbing. When I finally stopped, the sky had dulled to gray. I set to work: replacing the tombstone, clearing the weeds, wiping mud from her photo, arranging the toys neatly at her feet.

My voice shook as I whispered, “Mom will make them pay… all of them.”

By the time I returned home, dawn was beginning to break.

The door hadn’t even fully closed when Damian’s voice echoed from the living room. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home? Where have you been? I called all night! Do you even understand—”

He cut off abruptly as I walked past him without a glance.

“Today… is our daughter’s death anniversary,” I said quietly.

Before I could move further, darkness swallowed me.

When I came to, a soft, weary voice reached me. Maybe it was him.

“Clara… I’m sorry.”

Then a harsh, insistent ringing cut through the haze.

I opened my eyes. The room was empty. It had all been a dream.

The phone kept buzzing. My hands trembled as I grabbed it.

When I heard Mara’s voice, my chest tightened painfully.

“Clara,” she said, voice trembling but bright with urgency. “I found it. I found proof. Chiara… she was the one who killed your daughter.”