Chapter 3: The Lie That Broke Me

But I waited and waited, long past the agreed time, and my daughter still hadn’t come home.

I watched the light change in the living room, the sun slipping behind the trees. My stomach twisted with worry. I paced, checked my phone, scrolled through news headlines just in case. The longer I waited, the more anxious I became, every minute stretching out like taffy.

Worried something had happened, I was just about to call her when her call came through.

The phone rang, and I snatched it up, relief flooding me. But the second I heard her voice, I knew something was off. She sounded distracted, her words tumbling out too fast, like she was reading from a script.

“Mom, something urgent came up at work, and it’s the same for Adam. It was so sudden. We can’t get time off, so we probably won’t be able to celebrate your birthday today…”

Her voice was thick with apology, but there was a distance there I hadn’t heard before. I could picture her, standing in a hallway somewhere, eyes darting, trying to sound casual. My heart sank, but I forced a smile into my voice.

She sounded full of guilt.

I could hear it—the way she hesitated, the catch in her throat. She was trying so hard to make it sound okay, but I could feel the lie underneath. I wanted to reach through the phone and hug her, to tell her it was all right, but the words stuck in my throat.

I felt a little let down, but their careers were more important, so I tried to calm myself.

I told myself not to be selfish. They were working hard, building their own lives. I’d had my turn. Still, I felt a pang of disappointment, like a child who’d been promised something special and then told to wait another day.

I told her, “It’s okay, work comes first. You two focus on your jobs. I’ll go pick up Maddie from—”

I tried to sound upbeat, brushing off my own feelings. I figured I could at least help out, maybe make things easier for them. I was already halfway to grabbing my keys when she cut me off.

“Wait!”

Her voice was sharp, a little too quick. It startled me, and I froze, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for her to explain.

Before I could finish, my daughter interrupted me.

She sounded almost frantic, like she’d rehearsed this part and was afraid I’d mess up her plan. I could hear voices in the background, muffled laughter, and it made my heart race with unease.

“Mom, it’s your birthday today. You shouldn’t be running around. My friend happens to be passing by the school this afternoon and will pick up Maddie and bring her to my office. You just relax at home.”

She tried to sound casual, but there was a tightness in her voice. I hesitated, thinking about Maddie’s little hands, her wild energy. I knew how much she could distract anyone, even on a good day.

Thinking about how busy she was and how young Maddie was, I said, “Maybe I should still pick her up. You’re swamped at work, and that little rascal’s at her most mischievous. She’ll just distract you.”

I tried to keep my tone light, but I couldn’t shake the worry. I’d always been the one to pick up Maddie, to keep her out of trouble. It felt strange to let someone else step in, especially on a day like this.

At that, my daughter sounded almost anxious, her voice rising.

She cut me off again, her words tumbling out in a rush. I could tell she was trying to control the conversation, to steer me away from something she didn’t want me to see.

“Oh, come on, Mom, my friend’s already passing by. Don’t worry, just rest at home. You don’t need to worry about Maddie. I have another meeting coming up, so I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

She hung up right after, not giving me a chance to say anything else.

That hurt more than I expected. I stared at the phone for a long moment, listening to the dial tone, feeling more alone than ever. It was like the air had gone out of the room.

Listening to the dial tone, I sighed. My daughter had been working so hard lately, she’d lost weight. So I went into the kitchen, planning to make a nourishing chicken soup for her and my son-in-law.

Cooking always calmed me. The smell of onions and carrots sizzling in the pan brought me back to all those years cooking for Emily as a little girl—her perched on a stool, sneaking bites of carrot when she thought I wasn’t looking. I pulled out the biggest pot, set the old hen to simmer, and started chopping. The familiar motions soothed me. I told myself I’d save them a bowl, that we’d share it tomorrow, and everything would be fine.

Old hens take a long time to cook, and with the chores done, I sat on the couch, pulled out my phone, and decided to rest for a bit.

The house was quiet, just the ticking of the clock and the faint bubbling from the kitchen. I settled into the cushions, scrolling through my phone, trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest. The soup’s scent filled the air, warm and familiar.

What else was I supposed to do at my age? I scrolled through videos. I flipped through a few, nothing interesting. Just as I was about to exit, I accidentally tapped on the local feed.

It was mostly small-town stuff—lost dogs, bake sales, the usual. I almost closed the app, but something caught my eye: a video thumbnail with a woman who looked so much like Emily I had to do a double take. My heart skipped a beat.

From the posture alone in the thumbnail, I knew it was my daughter, Emily Callahan.

Her hair, the way she stood—there was no mistaking it. I felt a jolt of unease, my finger hovering over the screen. What was she doing at a hotel, dressed up like that?

The video had been posted half an hour ago.

The timestamp glowed on the screen. My mind raced, piecing together the lies, the rushed phone call, the strange insistence that I stay home. I tapped the video, hands trembling.

My stomach dropped as it loaded.

The video started with a sweeping shot of a lavish banquet room—white tablecloths, gold balloons, a cake that looked like it belonged in a magazine. And there, right in the middle, was my family. My daughter, my son-in-law, my granddaughter—all of them smiling, laughing, as if nothing in the world could touch them.

They stood at a round table—Adam holding Maddie beside Emily—all three smiling.

They looked so happy, so at ease. I felt like an intruder, watching a life I wasn’t part of. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of hope and dread swirling inside me.

Emily turned her head slightly, and the camera panned over.

I caught a glimpse of her profile, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—just like I used to do. Then the camera shifted, and my breath caught in my throat.