They Stole My Daughter's Heart , So I Destroyed Them All

The day after my daughter died on the operating table, I went home to pack up her things. Without warning, a wave of nausea surged through me.

I stared at the two lines on the pregnancy test, and the tears I'd been holding back finally broke free.

I had just lost one child. Was this heaven's way of giving me another? Grief and disbelief crashed into each other inside my chest.

Her toys were still scattered around the house, as if they still held the warmth of her little fingers. I wanted to gather them all and bring them to my room, to keep something of her close.

But while I was moving things, I accidentally bumped the smart speaker. It had been her favorite. She used to record messages on it every day, telling me everything she'd done.

I played the last recording. I just wanted to hear her voice.

"Amber Fox is such an idiot. I tricked her into signing the surgical consent form. Once our baby is better, we'll take the money and start a new life together."

That wasn't my daughter's voice. I knew that voice better than almost any other. It was my adopted sister, Mabel Fox.

"Thank God the heart was a match for yours. Otherwise you'd both be dead, and if I lost you two, I wouldn't know how to go on." Then came the ragged breathing of my husband, Guy James.

The color drained from my face. I stood frozen, staring at the speaker on the nightstand, my legs nearly giving out beneath me.

I scraped together every last shred of composure I had and rushed back to the funeral. I was ready to confront them.

But the moment I arrived, Mabel walked in carrying a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums and a paper bag.

"Amber, I brought you a gift. I hope you won't be too sad."

The first item was Guy James's vasectomy certificate.

The second was a prenatal checkup report. Mabel Fox, three months pregnant.

"As for the third," she leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear, "it's the consent form for your daughter's heart transplant. Don't you remember? The contract you signed that night when you were drunk?"

My hands shook violently. I swayed on my feet and raised my hand to slap her across the face.

But before I could, my mother collapsed beside me with a heavy thud. I abandoned everything else and called an ambulance.

Looking at my mother's unconscious face, I couldn't take it anymore. I dialed the number.

"Listen to me. Seven days. I want them destroyed."

……

A pause. Then:

"You should have done this a long time ago. I told you back then that man was no good. I'll help you. Seven days from now, I'll come for you."

I bit down on my lower lip until the taste of blood spread across my tongue. Only then could I force the sob back down my throat.

"Start by drafting a divorce agreement for me."

The voice on the other end agreed. The tears I'd been fighting spilled over, and I hung up.

The phone slipped from my fingers. I buried my face in my hands, my shoulders trembling.

I had been married to Guy James for five years.

Since high school, I'd loved him for a full decade. No one knew how overjoyed I was when he proposed. No one could have.

He was the James family's illegitimate son, raised on cruelty and contempt, and it had forged him into something cold and guarded, armored against the world.

But I threw myself at those walls anyway. I believed love could melt the ice.

Everyone said Guy James was crazy about me. That if I asked for the stars, he'd find a way to pluck them from the sky and lay them at my feet.

Now I knew it was all a lie.

Seven days ago, I watched my beautiful daughter wheeled out of the operating room under a white sheet.

"We're sorry, Mrs. James. There was a complication during surgery. We did everything we could."

In that moment, it felt like a massive hand had reached into my chest and torn my heart clean in half. The pain was so sharp I couldn't breathe.

With trembling hands, I slowly lifted the sheet. I touched her cold little face, and the tears I'd been holding back flooded out.

I pressed my cheek against hers. My eyes went hollow. My arms locked around her thin, small body and would not let go.

My daughter had always been healthy. How could a minor surgery go wrong?

The odds of a complication were almost nonexistent. Why did it have to be my daughter?

The medical staff tried to wheel her away. I threw myself at the gurney like a woman possessed, my voice so raw it barely made a sound. "Don't take her! Give me back my daughter..."

I pulled out my phone to call Guy, who was supposed to be in a meeting. He could fix this. He could bring her back.

I called ninety-nine times. He didn't pick up once.

Finally, on the hundredth call, he answered.

"Amber, I'm in a meeting. I'll call you back." His voice came through hoarse and breathless.

Before I could get a word out, a woman's voice floated through the speaker.

"Come on, let's go get Thai food on the south side. That place is so popular. If we don't hurry, we'll have to wait in line."

I knew that voice. I knew it as well as my own. My adopted sister. The woman who held his heart.

The line went dead.

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. I stood in that vast, freezing hospital corridor, phone clutched in my hand, and the world went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a hospital bed. My chest felt like someone had pressed a white-hot brand against it, a suffocating, smoldering ache.

Guy's assistant stood at my bedside, his tone careful. "Mrs. James, Mr. James asked me to let you know the funeral will be held this afternoon. He'd like you to get ready."

My pupils contracted. I ripped the IV needle from the back of my hand, grabbed the assistant by his collar, and yanked him toward me. "Where is my daughter? Where is he?"

"Mr. James already took her, ma'am. He said he'd handle the funeral arrangements. He didn't want you to overexert yourself."

My fingers uncurled, one by one. I fell back against the bed, hollow.

I checked myself out and went home to sort through my daughter's belongings.

The moment I stepped into her room and picked up the little dress she'd loved most, a sharp acid burn shot from my stomach to my throat.

I stumbled into the bathroom and retched over the toilet, but nothing came up except bile.

A single thought flashed through my mind.

Gripping the cold edge of the sink, I stared down at the pregnancy test with shaking hands.

I was pregnant.