My Daughter’s Funeral, My Last Goodbye

Camila's POV

“Camilla, who were you talking to in there?” Brandon asked, his voice low, suspicious, already tilting toward confrontation.

I ended the call just in time and met his gaze—steady, unbothered.

“Just a friend,” I replied, cool and flat.

'Just a friend.' The words tasted ridiculous the second they left my mouth.

What kind of “friend” do you sneak off to the bathroom to call while your husband’s sitting in the next room?

He was already connecting the dots, probably gearing up for one of his signature interrogations—half accusation, half performance, when a low rumble of thunder rolled in from outside the window.

And just like that, I lost him. His whole body tensed, attention shifting.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and rushed down the hallway toward the VIP suite.

Because, of course, Sabrina was afraid of thunderstorms.

Every time it rained, he dropped everything to be with her. It didn’t matter what he was doing or if I was in the middle of a sentence or a breakdown.

I used to cry. I used to beg. I used to chase after him like my love could compete with her fear.

But this time? I didn’t move.

No scene. No meltdown. No grabbing of his sleeve and whispering, 'Please don’t go!'

I just stood there.

Halfway down the hall, he slowed down, looking confused.

I wasn’t behind him.

Something twisted in his face—tight, foreign. He furrowed his brow, not sure why it suddenly felt wrong.

But he didn’t turn back. He just kept walking, assuming I was finally learning my place.

...

The next day, as if I’d somehow earned a reward, Brandon dragged me to the mall.

No heads-up. No, “Do you want to come?”

He just pulled me along with him and Sabrina as if I were a dog on a leash. I trailed behind them while they wandered from boutique to boutique, laughing and whispering as though they were the stars of some painfully cliché romance.

And me? I was the extra in the background.

Everyone in that mall knew I was Mrs. Doyle. But it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to him.

Salesgirls smiled politely—too politely—as they handed me shopping bags like I was the hired help.

“Thank you for stopping by, ma’am,” one chirped, her eyes flicking to Sabrina like she was royalty. I stood there holding heels, designer sweaters, a stupid pink maternity coat—as if I should be grateful.

Brandon didn’t say a word. He had one arm around Sabrina, planting a kiss on her hair while she leaned into him with that smug little smirk.

By the time we made it to the elevator, my arms were numb. I was sore, still recovering from surgery, barely hanging on.

And then I missed a step. My foot caught the edge. My knee buckled.

Everything—bags, boxes, pride—crashed to the floor with me. I hit the ground hard, pain lancing through my shoulder as clothes and shopping bags scattered everywhere like some pathetic explosion of luxury.

Neither of them turned around.

Not even once. No one turned back.

While I was picking myself up, Brandon was already in the baby boutique with Sabrina, helping her pick out onesies.

Pink or blue? She couldn’t decide.

He just smiled, pulled out his black card, and handed it to the clerk.

“We’ll take everything,” he said.

I finally caught up, still looking a mess, just in time to hear one of the employees gush to Sabrina.

“Ma’am, I’m so jealous of your little baby. He’s not even born yet, and he already has such a perfect, loving dad.”

Looking at the little star-patterned hair tie around my wrist, I remembered the day when our daughter, Lyra, was struck by sudden, acute meningitis.

Her fever wouldn’t break. Her lips were pale. Her little hands kept reaching for me.

I had called Brandon 199 times.

His phone wasn’t off. He just didn’t pick up.

In the ER, her voice was barely a whisper. “Mommy… I promise I won’t steal milk candy again.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Why would you say that, baby?”

“Because Daddy must be mad at me,” she said. “I wasn’t good. That’s why he won’t come to see me. Mommy, I’m sorry. I’m a useless kid. I couldn’t help you make Daddy love you.”

Later, when the doctors told me she might not make it, I went to Sabrina’s apartment and begged to let Brandon come to the hospital with me.

I dropped to my knees outside her door, pleading.

Crying.

She didn’t come out. But her bodyguards did.

They dragged me down the hallway and slapped me.

Over and over.

By the time the hospital called to say Lyra was gone, Brandon was just waking up from his afternoon nap. He opened the door, yawned, and looked at me like I was trash left on the curb.

My face was swollen and bruised. I could barely speak.

All he said was, “Didn’t I tell you not to bother Sabrina? This is what you get for not listening.”

Snapping back to the present, I put down all the shopping bags, turned around, and started walking toward the exit. Just then, Brandon grabbed my wrist with a firm grip and pulled me into the jewelry store on the top floor.

“Camilla,” he said, his tone unreadable, “didn’t you always complain about wanting a necklace?”

He brushed my hair off my shoulder, trying to make it look like some affectionate gesture. Then he turned to the counter and started browsing.

Off to the side, Sabrina watched in silence. Then, as if on cue, she stepped in, curling herself against his chest.

She looked at me with a soft, sugary smile.

“Camilla,” she said sweetly, “if it weren’t for your generous donation of your uterus, our baby might not have made it. Brandon, don’t you think we should have a little dinner tonight to thank her properly?”

Brandon smiled down at her, brushing her bangs aside like she was made of porcelain.

“My precious Sabrina, whatever you want, we’ll do it," he replied.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t decline.

I had some documents I needed to grab from the villa, anyway.

So I smiled faintly, nodded, and said nothing. It wasn't because I wanted dinner.

It was because I needed to go back one last time.