Chapter 1: The Day Justice Died

My son died in a car accident. The driver didn’t even stop. He just left my boy there.

The ache never really left me—not even for a second. Sometimes, in the dead quiet of the house, I swear I hear his laughter echoing down the hall, and the pain—God, it would come roaring back. There’s nothing in the world that prepares you for that kind of emptiness. Nothing.

On the day of the trial, my wife—one of the best defense attorneys in the state—stood there, cool as ever, fighting for the man who killed our boy.

She looked like she always did in court: sharp suit, not a hair out of place, eyes cold and clear as glass—like nothing in the world could touch her. The judge’s gavel hadn’t even hit the block. Already, the air in the room was thick with tension. I could barely breathe.

I dropped to my knees in front of her, begging her—just begging—for justice for our son.

My voice cracked. It bounced off the marble floor, loud in the silence. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold myself up. I didn’t care who was watching. Pride meant nothing anymore. Not now. Not ever.

She kicked me aside. The sharp heel of her pump pressed into my chest. “The dead don’t come back. If we lose, we lose.”

The click of her heel was cold. Final. She didn’t even look down at me—just straightened her jacket, eyes forward. For a second, I thought: I don’t even know her anymore.

I kept digging for the truth, but then I caught my wife in the act—her tangled up with the killer, whispering she wanted to have a son with him. That image is burned into my brain. I’d stayed late at the office. But something told me—go home early. The house was too quiet. I crept down the hall, and there they were—her hands in his hair, her lips at his ear. I heard her say it. I almost threw up right there.

Later, we won the case. I asked for a divorce. For a moment, I just stood there, stunned—then I handed her the papers.

The verdict was a slap in the face. She celebrated, arms around him. I stood in the shadows, clutching the divorce papers.

She broke down, begging, saying she was wrong. She dropped to her knees, grabbing at my shirt, voice raw and trembling. “Please, baby, don’t leave me.”

Her mascara ran in black streaks down her cheeks. I barely recognized her. She dropped to her knees on the hardwood, clutching at me, voice cracked and desperate. For a split second, I almost believed her. But it was too late. Way too late.

I clung to my son’s funeral portrait, refusing to let go. I hadn’t slept all night. My eyes were bloodshot. Still, I couldn’t let go.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The picture frame dug into my palms. The sun came up, but I didn’t notice. My mind replayed every moment, every laugh, every hug I’d ever had with Benji. I just couldn’t put the picture down.

My hair had turned white. Just like that.

I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Lines deeper, hair shock-white at the temples. I looked twenty years older overnight. Grief does that, I guess. It hollows you out. Leaves you a shell.

There’s nothing worse than losing your child. Trust me.

No parent should have to bury their kid. It’s a heartbreak without a name. The world keeps spinning, but you’re stuck in the moment you heard the news.

Just yesterday morning, my son was running around the house. By afternoon, he was in the ICU.

He was chasing the dog, giggling, begging for pancakes. God, he was so alive. I remember ruffling his hair before heading out. By lunch, my phone rang, and everything changed. I still hear the sirens sometimes, even in my dreams.

I watched my son, hooked up to tubes, lying in that hospital bed. He cried out, again and again: “Daddy, it hurts. Daddy, it hurts.”

Those words haunt me. Every night. His tiny hand gripping my finger, his face twisted in pain, tears streaking down his cheeks. I tried to be strong for him, but inside I was falling apart.

My heart twisted in agony. All I could do was whisper: “Hold on, Benji, just a little longer. Just a little longer.”

I kept stroking his hair, humming that lullaby he loved. I told him we’d go to the park again. That everything would be okay. I lied, because I had to.

His liver ruptured. He was rushed into surgery.

The nurses wheeled him away. I was left staring at the swinging doors, numb and helpless. Every second felt like an hour.

I signed six consent forms outside the OR. Six.

Each time the nurse came out, clipboard in hand, my heart dropped. Every time. My signature blurred from the tears in my eyes. I’d have signed anything if it meant saving him.

Clinging to my last hope, I watched as the doctor came out. “Mr. Carter, we did everything we could. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I couldn’t believe it—my son, who’d been running around that morning, was now under a white sheet.

The doctor’s words didn’t make sense. I just stared at him, waiting for him to take it back. But he just stood there, hands folded, eyes full of pity. I collapsed against the wall, sobbing.

Suddenly, the world went silent. Just—gone.

It was like someone pressed mute on my life. People moved around me, but I couldn’t hear a thing.

“Son, you have to get justice for Benji. Catch the man who did this,” my mother said. Her hands shook as she tried to comfort me.

She gripped my shoulders. Her own face streaked with tears. Her voice was shaky, but fierce. She’d lost her grandson, and now she was terrified of losing me too.

“Daddy, it hurts so much. I want Mom.” My son’s last words echoed in my mind. Over and over.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard his voice. I’d give anything to hear it again. Just once. To hold him again.

I sat there, numb. Hugging my son’s photo. Unable to let go.

I didn’t move for hours. My phone buzzed. People came and went. But I was frozen. The world could have ended, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Until my phone rang.

The ringtone was especially harsh in the quiet hospital. It blared through the silence, making me jump.

I almost didn’t answer. Part of me hoped—maybe it was all just a bad dream.

“Hello?”

My voice was hoarse. Barely more than a whisper.

“Today’s Benji’s birthday. I’m not coming home. I picked him up from preschool yesterday. Already gave him his birthday present.”

Samantha didn’t even wait for me to reply. She hung up.

Her voice was cold, businesslike. She hung up so fast, I barely had time to process it. I stared at the screen, the call ended, feeling sick.

I was numb. Just staring at her Instagram story.

My thumb hovered over her profile picture. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. It was like picking at a scab you know will never heal.

Samantha was in a tight red dress, leaning sweetly against a man’s shoulder. Faint lipstick marks on her neck.

They looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine. Her head tilted just so. His hand on her waist. I recognized the man instantly. My stomach twisted.

The caption read: “Dreams come true.” I read it twice, just to be sure. My jaw clenched. Was this her idea of a dream?

Cameron—Samantha’s stepbrother. Her first love. The one she could never let go of.

He’d always been in the background. Hovering just out of reach. The golden boy, the one she’d pine for even when she was supposed to be with me.

For him, Samantha could forget the son she carried for nine months. Just like that.

It didn’t matter that Benji was gone. For her, Cameron was the only thing that mattered. Benji was just a footnote in her life.

Our son died on his birthday. Samantha was off having the time of her life with her first love.

The irony was almost too much to bear. I wanted to scream, to throw my phone across the room. But I just sat there, hollowed out.

I let out a low, bitter laugh. Full of despair.

It sounded more like a sob. The kind that racks your whole body and leaves you gasping for air. I hadn’t laughed in weeks, but this wasn’t real laughter. It was all pain.

I squeezed my eyes shut, knuckles white around my phone. My heart aching.

I pressed the phone to my forehead, fighting back tears. My whole body trembled. I felt like I was falling apart, cell by cell.

The investigation dragged on. The summer heat was unbearable. My son—he couldn’t wait any longer.

Every day was a blur of paperwork, phone calls, dead ends. The AC was broken in the funeral home.

I had no choice. I had to cremate him first.

It was the last thing I wanted. But I couldn’t keep him waiting any longer. The funeral director handed me a small, heavy urn. I cradled it like it was made of glass.

My son was leaving. Samantha still hadn’t come to say goodbye.

I kept hoping she’d show up. Just once. To say a proper farewell. But the door stayed closed. The chapel was empty except for me and my mother.

Letting go of the bitterness, clinging to one last sliver of hope—I called Samantha.

I stared at her name on my phone, thumb hovering over the call button. I told myself this was it—one last chance.

I hadn’t even spoken. She snapped on the other end.

She picked up with a sigh. Like I was interrupting her day. No hint of grief, no softness in her tone.

“Didn’t I tell you? Don’t call unless it’s important. Don’t tie up my client line. People call me for murders, not domestic drama.”

She sounded annoyed, like I was a telemarketer. My hands shook with anger. And disbelief.

“It is life or death. Benji—he…” Before I could finish, a man’s voice cut in.

I heard laughter in the background. Then his voice—smooth, familiar. My stomach dropped.

“Lila, come back.”

Lila, Cameron’s daughter. If not for her—if Cameron hadn’t moved abroad and gotten married—would Samantha ever have settled for a guy like me?

I’d always wondered if I was just the consolation prize. Lila was proof Cameron had moved on. But Samantha never really did.

Samantha’s attention snapped away from me.

I heard her moving. Her voice suddenly warm and sweet.

“Alright, what now? Benji got into trouble again? Boys get bumps and bruises all the time.” She didn’t even bother hanging up. Just rushed off.

She laughed, like it was all a joke. I wanted to shout at her, to make her understand. But she was already gone.

“Lila, be good, don’t run off. Mommy’s taking you to the amusement park.”

Her voice, so gentle with Lila, made my heart ache for Benji. He never got that softness from her.

“Listen to your mom.”

Cameron’s voice, calm and reassuring, filtered through the line. It grated on me.

“Whatever you want to eat, Mommy will get it. How about chocolate cake?”

Chocolate cake—Benji’s favorite. She never even remembered his birthday. But she’d do anything for Lila.

“You just spoil her.”

Cameron chuckled. That kind of easy laughter made my skin crawl.