Chapter 1: The Day Everything Broke

At 11 a.m., while my husband was slowly suffocating in the bathtub, I was chatting with other moms by the slide at our apartment complex in Maple Heights. If I’d looked up at our window just once, maybe everything would be different.

The late-morning sun baked the cracked sidewalk, and the shrieks of kids playing echoed through the air, bouncing off faded hopscotch chalk and the scent of sunscreen and hot plastic. I balanced my Starbucks cup on my knee, hands sweating around the cardboard sleeve, half-listening, half-glancing at Maddie as she zipped down the slide, her hair flying like a streamer. My mind was everywhere except home, lost in small talk and the sticky, humid air. For a second, my hand tightened around my coffee, a sudden chill crawling up my arms despite the heat. What if I’d just said no?

The slide was right below our bathroom window, maybe fifteen or twenty feet away in a straight line. From where I sat, I could see a dad grilling burgers on a tiny balcony, the sizzle of meat mixing with the distant hum of a leaf blower.

Sometimes, I’d catch a glimpse of our second-story window from the playground, see the pale blue shower curtain flutter if the breeze was just right. It always felt oddly comforting, knowing home was just up there, so close.

Normally, if I’d gone home at 11 like I always did, I would’ve been in time to save him.

That routine was ironclad. My friends joked you could set your watch by my daily schedule, right down to the five-minute warning for Maddie to wrap up playtime. If I’d only stuck to it that day... but I didn’t.

I remember my hand trembling around my coffee, the world blurring for a second as one thought hammered in my brain: If I’d only done what I always did, Ben would still be alive.

But that day, Kelsey’s mom had just bought a new dress and was excited to invite a few of us over to check it out.

She was the kind of woman who turned any moment into a mini fashion show, always eager to compete. Her apartment blasted AC and smelled like perfume and fresh coffee. Under flickering light, she modeled her new dress, and we all oohed and aahed, half-mocking, half-wishing it was ours.

At 11:10, when my daughter and I got home, my husband had already stopped breathing.

The world shifted the second I opened that door. Even before the scream clawed its way up my throat, something inside me knew. The seconds after felt like moving underwater—everything muffled, heavy, cold.

At the memorial service, I was overwhelmed with grief and fainted several times.

The chapel was packed, the air thick with lilies and whispers. I remember the sharp tang of flowers, the weight of hands guiding me to a seat when my legs buckled. My mind was fogged with exhaustion—condolences, Maddie’s sobs, the pastor’s voice melting into the background.

Everyone sympathized and shook their heads.

I could feel eyes on me everywhere: pity, whispers, what-a-shames. I squeezed Maddie’s tiny hand, wishing I could vanish, wondering if I’d ever breathe normally again.

My mother-in-law, Carol Greene, a retired elementary school principal, traveled all the way from a small town in Montana. Under everyone’s gaze, she walked up to me.

She moved through the crowd with old-school grace, head high and jaw set the same way Ben’s did when he was stubborn. Silver hair pulled back, plain but neat clothes. People whispered about her journey—the long train, the drive from Pine Ridge. She seemed untouched, eyes focused only on me.

Her expression was firm, and she spoke each word slowly and clearly:

"You are the one who killed my son."

The words hit like a slap in the middle of the quiet room. Every head jerked up; my cheeks burned, shock locking my tongue. Chairs scraped, someone dropped a cup. I felt a dozen eyes burn into my skin. Somewhere behind me, someone gasped, but Carol didn’t flinch, her stare pinning me in place. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.

The last thing I heard before the world shattered was Maddie’s laugh echoing up from the playground.