Five years after my firefighter husband supposedly died saving me from a burning building, I accidentally walked in on him celebrating his child’s birthday party with his childhood sweetheart. Daniel froze when he saw me. His friends immediately crowded in front of him like a human shield. “Clara, don’t do anything crazy. Daniel had his reasons for faking his death.” His childhood friend Summer begged through tears: “I’m sorry, Clara. The baby needs his father. Please, just let us be together. I love him too much.” July 23rd, 2019. Seven days after the fire that supposedly killed Daniel. That day, everyone who knew us said I was the one who killed him. The fire department’s investigation report stated: Due to family member’s emotional breakdown and unauthorized entry into the fire scene, rescue team member Daniel sacrificed his life protecting her. His parents collapsed at the funeral, cursing me: “Why aren’t you dead? Why wasn’t it you instead?” I thought I truly deserved to die. So after Daniel’s funeral, I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. But my neighbor found me and called 911. As they pumped my stomach in the ER, I heard the nurses whispering: “That’s her… the one who got her husband killed…” No one knew why I suddenly ran into that fire. That day, I received a call from an unknown number saying Daniel was trapped on the second floor of the warehouse and running out of time. I rushed in like a madwoman, only to see a burning beam crash down. The fire was too intense. The fire department said nothing was left of his body. But what I didn’t know was that at that exact moment, Daniel was at the hospital with Summer for her prenatal checkup, taking this photo together. I took a glass of champagne from the server and walked straight toward the main table, meeting everyone’s shocked stares. Summer instinctively pulled the baby closer to her chest. Daniel practically jumped up to block her: “Clara, let me explain…” Those friends who once comforted me now stood up in unison, forming a wall between us. “Clara, calm down. Daniel had no choice back then. That fire was suspicious. Someone was after him… He faked his death to protect you, really!” I laughed. Did they actually think I was going to throw champagne in a baby’s face? How amusing. I casually picked an empty seat at the next table and raised my glass toward Summer and Daniel: “The baby’s adorable. I wish him a healthy life.” I downed the champagne in one gulp. The cheap alcohol burned my throat, making me cough until my eyes watered. “Enough! Clara, if you have a problem, take it up with me. Don’t make a scene here!” Daniel pushed through the people blocking him and strode over, his brows knitted tight. “Five years, and you’re still the same. Do you have to embarrass people at an event like this?” He thought I was here to cause trouble. The disgust in his eyes was practically overflowing. I didn’t know how to explain. I really had just walked into the wrong room. I was here for my company’s year-end dinner in the hall next door. I could only helplessly point at my business suit: “I was at a meeting next door. Wrong room.” But Daniel didn’t believe me. He grabbed my wrist, so hard my bones ached. “Stop being stubborn. About what happened back then… I wronged you. After the party ends, I’ll take you home.” Summer’s face went pale. She stood up holding the baby: “Daniel…” Daniel turned back, his tone softening: “Summer, I just don’t want her emotional state to affect the baby. Don’t worry.” But his grip on my hand didn’t loosen. I pulled free forcefully and stepped back, forcing an ugly smile: “That wouldn’t be appropriate, Mr. Hayes. Your wife and child are watching.” He acted like he didn’t hear me and reached for me again. I found it absurd. Five years apart, and he’d changed this much?
Memories flooded in like a broken dam, a dull pain spreading through my chest. This champagne was cheap but packed a punch. My vision started to blur. Daniel’s face split into double images. I didn’t want to stay any longer. I turned to leave but stumbled. The next second, I was airborne as he scooped me up in his arms. “Drunk like this and still acting tough!” He was actually carrying me out in front of everyone. The guests erupted in shocked murmurs. Summer’s parents shot to their feet, their faces dark. Summer’s father barked: “Daniel! Put her down! Do you realize what day this is? Have you lost your mind?” Summer’s mother started crying: “Summer just gave birth to your child, and this is how you treat her? Are you even human?” Summer held the baby, tears streaming down her face, but she bit her lip and said nothing. She just looked at Daniel with heartbroken eyes. Anyone watching would curse us as cheating scum. Daniel’s steps faltered. He looked down at Summer, something flickering in his eyes. I seized the chance to struggle: “Put me down!” He only held tighter and said to Summer’s parents: “Mom, Dad, Clara’s had too much to drink. I’ll take her home and come right back.” Summer finally broke down crying: “Daniel… you’re choosing her, aren’t you? Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll take the baby and leave…” She turned as if to rush out with the child. The scene descended into chaos. Daniel’s face went white. He called out urgently: “Summer! Don’t do this! I’m just taking her home. You’ll always be my wife!” Such familiar words. He used to say: “Summer’s just like a sister. You’ll always be the one I love most.” I closed my eyes, feeling exhausted. Home? I didn’t have a home anymore. When they shoved me into the car, my stomach churned and I started dry heaving. It was a physical revulsion, a conditioned reflex accumulated from five years of waking up screaming from nightmares. The cause of Daniel’s supposed death was that warehouse fire. That day was our third wedding anniversary. I’d made a reservation early and waited for him to get off work. But by 9 PM, he still hadn’t shown up. His phone went straight to voicemail. At 10 PM, I got a call from an unknown number. A man’s voice, breathing heavily: “Daniel’s trapped in the old warehouse on West Street. The fire’s too big. He told me to tell you… he loves you…” In the background, I could hear the crackling of flames and Daniel’s muffled shouts: “Clara, don’t come!” I rushed there like a madwoman. Fire trucks surrounded the building. Police tape blocked the perimeter. I heard someone yelling: “Daniel’s still inside!” I didn’t think. I just ran in. Through the thick smoke, I saw Daniel collapsed by some shelving. I lunged forward to pull him up when a burning beam came crashing down… He shoved me away with all his strength. The blast wave threw me backward. When I looked back, all I saw was a sea of flames. Later, the investigation report said my unauthorized entry interfered with the rescue, causing Daniel to sacrifice himself protecting me. His parents tore up our marriage certificate and threw me out of their house. My mom called, crying: “Clara, honey, I know you’re hurting. But your brother’s got a girlfriend now, and her family heard about what happened… They think it’s disturbing. Could you… maybe not come home for a while?” Even my own family didn’t want me anymore. So I started trying to kill myself. The first time, I slit my wrists in the bathtub. My landlord found me after a leak from upstairs alerted him. They rushed me to the hospital. The second time, I jumped into the river. The winter water was freezing. As I sank, an old man on his daily swim pulled me out. The third time was sleeping pills again. This time I was smarter. I went to a small motel in the suburbs. But the owner noticed something was wrong and called the cops. When they pumped my stomach, the doctor looked at me with complicated eyes: “Miss, the person who died for you would want you to live well.” But no one wanted me to live. Except Rachel.
Rachel was Summer’s cousin and my college classmate. When she found me, I was running a high fever in my rental, hadn’t eaten in three days. She didn’t lecture me. She just made me some soup, sat on the bed, and said calmly: “Clara, if I were you, I’d live well. I’d live better than everyone else and make those who wronged me watch. Show them I’m fine without them.” “Dying is easy. Living is hard. Do you dare to choose the hard way?” I looked at her and suddenly started crying. After that, Rachel visited often. She took me out to eat, forced me to leave the house, even helped me find a new job. She said: “You need to stand up, Clara. Not for anyone else. For yourself.” I thought I’d finally found a lifeline. But just as I was getting better and preparing to start a new life, something happened to Rachel. A car accident. The other driver was drunk. Hit her car head-on. She died instantly. I went to the morgue to identify the body. The police handed me a charred phone, said they found it in the car. The last message was to me, never sent. It read: “Clara, I found something wrong with Daniel’s fire. It might be connected to Sum…” The rest was never typed. I gripped the phone, my whole body turning cold. At Rachel’s funeral, Summer came too, crying so hard she nearly fainted: “Cousin… how could you just leave like this…” Daniel’s parents patted her back consolingly: “Summer, dear, stay strong. You’re still young. You have to look forward.” In that moment, I suddenly felt like there was an invisible net that had trapped me long ago. And every time I struggled, it only tightened. “You okay? Why are you throwing up so much?” Daniel handed me a bottle of water, then pulled at his expensive suit sleeve, trying to wipe the corner of my mouth. His movements were as gentle as a considerate husband. I found it bitterly ironic. He was indeed a husband. Just not mine. “Clara…” Summer had followed us out. She’d changed into comfortable postpartum clothes, her hair messy, tear stains still on her face, the baby in her arms. “What happened back then… we wronged you. You can hate me however you want. Hit me, yell at me, I’ll accept it all…” She choked up, her voice soft as cotton. “Even… if you still want to be with Daniel, I… I can step aside. I’ll raise the child myself.” I opened my mouth, wanting to say I never thought that way. Five years later, I couldn’t even muster the energy to hate anymore. But Daniel interrupted first, his tone stern: “Summer! What are you saying!” “That’s all in the past. Clara’s doing well now. Stop bringing it up. You’re only making it harder for her.” Summer looked relieved, wiped her tears, and reached for my hand with concern. “Actually, I’ve been worried about you these five years. Afraid you’d do something… I…” She stopped mid-sentence. Her gaze fixed on my wrist, where several pale white scars crisscrossed like ugly centipedes. Daniel’s breathing suddenly became heavy. He silently pulled out a cigarette pack, lit one, and took a deep drag. In the swirling smoke, no one spoke. I remembered he didn’t used to smoke. Summer said softly: “He smokes when he’s stressed. Just never let you know. It’s… a habit between us.” She looked at Daniel, her eyes tender and affectionate. Between them, there were always so many habits I could never be part of. When we got back in the car, Summer and the baby took the front, so I was squeezed into the back seat. “Sorry, Summer can’t be in a draft.” The window slowly closed. I had severe claustrophobia. Ever since that fire, enclosed spaces made me feel like I was suffocating. The car drove for a long time in deathly silence. Daniel finally spoke, trying to break the awkwardness: “How are your parents? Haven’t seen them in a while.” “Mom died of a heart attack last year. Dad moved back to his hometown. Said the city made him uncomfortable.” My voice was so calm I could’ve been talking about strangers. The car screeched to a halt. I nearly slammed into the front seat. Through the rearview mirror, I saw Daniel’s hands shaking. Cigarette ash fell onto his pants without him noticing. My parents had opposed our relationship at first, thinking firefighting was too dangerous. It was Daniel who visited repeatedly, changing light bulbs and fixing pipes for them, playing chess with my dad, massaging my mom’s shoulders. When my dad finally relented, he said: “This kid really cares about you. Fine. As long as you’re happy.” When my mom was dying, she held my hand and said: “Clara, Mom’s sorry. We shouldn’t have pressured you back then… You’re alone now. Take care of yourself.” Daniel didn’t dare ask more. Because he knew. My mom’s illness came from years of anguish, from her daughter becoming “the murderer who killed her husband,” from being unable to hold her head up among the neighbors. It killed her slowly. The air froze. Summer quickly jumped in, her voice trembling: “So… where are you living now? We’ll take you home.” “Riverside Psychiatric Hospital. Inpatient ward, third floor. Bed 307.”
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