On Christmas Eve, my wife Sarah, our five-year-old Lily, and I drove back to my hometown in Ohio. Lily, blonde and blue-eyed, chattered in her sweet voice all the way. She looked like a little angel come to life. My relatives crowded around her, cooing and playing, the firelight from the fireplace dancing on their smiling faces. It should have been a warm, joyful night. But as the red wine dwindled, my Aunt Carol suddenly gestured for me to follow her outside. In the storage room, crammed with Christmas gifts, she closed the door and made a request that instantly froze my blood. “Hand over Lily’s guardianship to my son.” I stared, certain I’d misheard. “What did you say? Is this a joke?” The request was impossible. It made no sense. “I had a psychic reading,”Carol said, her tone turning lofty. “Your next child will be a boy. Look, Jack needs a child, and Lily is perfect. Why not let her make him happy? You’ll have others.” “She is my daughter,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “Not a gift to pass around. One more word, and we’re leaving. Now.” I turned to go. She dropped to her knees, hands clasped, tears suddenly falling. It was then I learned that her son, Jack, had been having episodes for half a year-refusing to eat, breaking things, posting violent things online. He’d screamed it again and again. “I’m going to adopt Lily! If I can’t have her as my daughter, I’d rather not live!” I almost laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. Adopt? Was I supposed to be dead? Then, as the rage cooled, a cold, clear thought took shape: This wasn’t about adoption. It was about possession. Jack was only twenty-two, single, with no job or income. How could Child Protective Services ever approve him? Unless…he wasn’t planning an adoption at all” A memory surfaced, sharp and cold. Six months ago, when fixing his phone, I’d d stumbled on a folder of indecent images of children, and dark-web “literary” links. . I looked down at Carol, who was still sobbing. “Even if you bleed from your knees, I will never agree.” She collapsed onto the floor, wailing, calling me selfish, disrespectful, and claiming I’d ruined her family. “My son will die! It’s all your daughter’s fault!” she shrieked. The relatives in the living room rushed in, drawn by the commotion. My parents snapped at me, “How could you upset your aunt like this?!” I didn’t explain. My eyes were fixed on Jack, who was emerging from behind the crowd. Overweight, with a face full of acne scars. He’d dropped out of community college and worked at an auto repair shop near home. “Give me your phone.” I pointed at him. He staggered back two steps, his eyes flickering. I’d felt uneasy since dinner-he’d been holding his phone, pretending to photograph the Christmas tree, but the lens always seemed to be aimed at Lily. I lunged, snatched the phone, and forced his face against it to unlock it. Inside the gallery, there was a folder named “Angel.” The moment I opened it, my scalp prickled. It was filled with pictures of my daughter. Dozens of them.
I grabbed Jack by the collar, unleashing a furious barrage of punches, nearly beating him to death right there. It took the older relatives to finally pull me off. With Sarah and Lily present, I couldn’t explain everything publicly, so I just smashed his phone into the fireplace. My parents were furious, raging at me for a long time, not bothering to hear my side of the story. I was beyond arguing. I grabbed Sarah and Lily, and we drove away from the old house late that night, heading for a motel thirty miles away. All the way, Lily slept soundly in the back seat, worn out. The pent-up fury and a bone-deep chill spread through me. I told Sarah everything. Her face went stark white as she listened. “We have to go now!” Her voice was sharp and furious. “Leave this state, and never come back!” I sighed. I wanted to be as far away from this family as possible. But the reality was, transportation in this small Midwestern town was nowhere near as convenient as in New York. The nearest Greyhound bus station wouldn’t open until tomorrow morning, and the airport for flights back to New York was in Columbus, a hundred and twenty miles away. It was snowing heavily, the roads were icy, and visibility was terrible-driving that far in this weather would be suicidal. “Tomorrow,” I said, squeezing her cold hand. “Tonight, we’ll rest at the motel. We’ll leave at first light.” Sarah looked out at the pitch-black, snowy night, then back at our sleeping daughter, and finally nodded, defeated. Snowflakes hammered densely against the windshield. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, keeping the speed low. But in my mind, Jack’s glare as we left flashed repeatedly. He stared at us, his eyes cold and vicious.
When my parents returned from town, they demanded to know why I’d ruined the family gathering. I told them about Jack’s malicious obsession with Lily. They began to tremble with rage. How could their beloved granddaughter become a mere “item” to be demanded and claimed? My parents ignored my pleas and insisted on going to Aunt Carol’s house to demand an explanation. I couldn’t stop them, and I really didn’t feel safe leaving Sarah and Lily alone at the motel, so I could only let them go, my heart in my throat. However, the sheer shamelessness and deceit of Jack’s family once again exceeded my imagination. About an hour later, my parents returned. My father had a bruise on his cheekbone, and my mother’s eyes were red-rimmed. Instead of receiving an apology, my parents had been slandered. Aunt Carol’s family turned the tables on them, accusing us of having a daughter just to “bewitch” Jack. They even cursed our entire family, wishing us “divine retribution and a terrible end.” My father, unable to stomach their lies, argued back, only to be beaten by Carol’s family. “Honey… look at my phone.” Sarah held her screen out to me. I tapped open our family Facebook group. What I saw instantly made my blood boil: furious insults from Aunt Carol’s family. “It’s our kindness to even consider taking your daughter! Filthy vermin, how dare you slander Jack!” “Look at how you’ve raised your daughter!” “Only useless people have daughters!!” A surge of brutal fury shot through me. I turned, grabbed a kitchen knife from the motel kitchenette, and lunged for the door. In that moment, I just wanted to shut them up for good. My parents, horrified, quickly held me back, tightly. “If you go to jail, what will happen to Lily?!” Dad pressed down on my shoulders. Lily’s cries came from the bedroom. Gradually, I loosened my grip, humiliation burning in my chest, making me feel as though I would vomit blood. If reason wouldn’t work, and I couldn’t fight these villains, couldn’t we at least escape them? “Dad, Mom,” I took a deep breath, “come back to New York with us. I can’t leave you here and be at peace. Think of it as… spending the rest of Christmas break at our place.” “But in this weather, flights are probably canceled…” Mom said worriedly. “We’ll drive back,” I said, feeling guilty. “The road conditions might be bad, and it’ll be tough on you.” My parents nodded, weary and heavy-hearted. “That’s the only option for now.”
I forced myself to sleep. A few more hours, and come morning, we’d leave all this behind for good. But I underestimated the malice of Jack’s family-they had no intention of letting us leave. The next day was Christmas. The small town was adorned with festive lights, brimming with holiday spirit. Yet our family was like refugees, silently packing our belongings. The car wheels crunched over the snow, slowly driving away from the town. As familiar landmarks shrunk in the rearview mirror, my taut nerves finally relaxed a little. Lily was securely fastened in her car seat, and Sarah was softly reading a picture book to her. My parents sat in the back, quietly discussing plans for when we returned to New York. I turned on the car stereo, hoping to dispel the gloom with soothing Christmas songs. Just as the piano intro to “Silent Night” began, my face went deathly pale. The steering wheel suddenly felt incredibly heavy and pulled uncontrollably to the right! My heart stopped. I slammed the brake pedal all the way down- The brakes had failed! “Stop! Stop now!” I wrestled desperately with the steering wheel. In my panic, a chilling thought struck me like lightning: this rental car had just passed a full inspection and was in perfect condition. And Jack, he worked at an auto repair shop. Someone who knew how to fix cars certainly knew how to make them fail at a critical moment. On the icy road, the tires screamed. The car wrenched sideways, slid, and punched through the guardrail. On one side of this road was a steep, snow-covered slope. God- Then came the shriek of my family, the deafening grind of tearing metal, and the world turning over and over as we fell. I woke up in a medical center. The nurse said our car had been stopped by several thick oak trees during its tumble, which was how we miraculously survived. My left tibia and fibula had an open fracture, now fixed with steel pins and a cast; three ribs on my right side were broken, one nearly puncturing my lung. The paramedics said if I had been brought in half an hour later, the internal bleeding would have been irreversible. A blessing in disguise, my parents and Sarah only suffered multiple contusions and mild concussions, no life-threatening severe injuries. After the crash, my father, still conscious, immediately dialed 911 on his phone, buying me precious time for rescue. Lily, miraculously, was unharmed thanks to her car seat, but she was terrified. For two whole days, she didn’t make a sound, just stared with empty, vacant eyes.
I leaned on my walker and shuffled to the pediatric ward, where I saw Lily curled in Sarah’s arms. Her small face was pale, her eyes unfocused, unresponsive to anything around her. I bore the sharp pain in my ribs, knelt by the bed, and took her into my arms, gently patting her back. After a long time, her stiff body finally softened a fraction. Two small, icy hands slowly rose, wrapping around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. “Daddy,” her voice was a faint whisper, choked with broken sobs, “Did… did we do something wrong, for bad things to happen?” It was the first sentence she’d spoken in two days. My heart felt squeezed by a cold hand. I continued to pat her back, feeling warm tears soak my hospital gown. “No, sweetie, we didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, my face against her soft hair, saying each word clearly, unsure if I was telling her or myself. “It’s the people who did bad things…they haven’t received the punishment they deserve.” Later, I received the preliminary accident investigation report from the Ohio Highway Patrol. The conclusion: the vehicle lost control on an icy road, resulting in a single-vehicle accident. Due to extensive damage to the vehicle, and key components being further damaged during the roll and rescue efforts, it was impossible to determine if there was any human-induced mechanical failure before the incident. The patrol eventually classified it as a “traffic accident caused by adverse weather conditions and potentially improper driver handling.” Rage left me trembling. I knew the truth was buried in that tangle of metal and wire. I knew what Jack had done. But without proof, suspicion was just a story I told myself. Even the question of his involvement became a ghost-visible to me, impossible to hold up to the light. A deep, cold helplessness washed through me. Helpless. To be crushed so completely, to cheat death, and still be unable to point a finger at the man who caused it-it was the ultimate powerlessness. A few days later, I was outside the hospital smoking when Jack actually showed up. I tried to swing at him, but my injured leg gave way and I collapsed into the snow. He kicked my crutch aside, squatted down, and sneered, “Can’t even stand up straight. What kind of father does that make you?” “What do you want?” I managed. “Just visiting my future daughter.” He grinned. “Tough little girl. Congratulations.” That’s when it hit me: The police hadn’t notified relatives yet. So how did he know we were here? How did he find this hospital in the next county over? It meant one thing. He had caused the crash. I remembered the line from the police report: Child unharmed-secured in safety seat. And suddenly, it made a terrible kind of sense. He had engineered the crash to kill us all, counting on the car seat to save Lily. That way, she’d become an orphan, and he could step in to “adopt” her. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll retaliate?” I asked. “Afraid of what?” He spread his hands. “You have a job and a house in New York. You lay a hand on me, you go to prison. I have nothing, so I dare to do anything.” He patted my shoulder. “I know where you live, where you work. I can come to New York to ‘visit’ you anytime.” I tried to hit him again, but only stumbled. “Give me Lily, and you can all be safe.” He said, then left. A passerby helped me retrieve my crutch. I was trembling, with only one thought: Kill him.
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