The next day, Charlotte, who had been so confident and self-assured before, waited in vain for any response from me. I had been hovering outside her office window since dawn, watching her tap her phone impatiently for the third time as her expression darkened.
"Shane, how dare you ignore me..." She slammed her phone face down on the desk, her chest heaving. "So you finally grew a backbone, huh?"
Charlotte thought that withholding our daughter's child support money would make me cave like before and that I'd show up obediently. But now, every threat she sent went unanswered.
By afternoon, she couldn't sit still anymore. She grabbed her car keys and rushed out.
I followed her as she drove all the way to the north side of town, to the place that had once been our home. Since we separated and I moved out alone with my daughter, I hadn't returned.
Charlotte parked the car and stared at the familiar villa, her expression somewhat distant. The roses in the garden had long since died, leaving only a few stubborn weeds leaning in the dirt. Even the swing was rusted, creaking softly in the wind.
She stood there for a long time before using the spare key to unlock the door. A cloud of dust greeted her as she opened it.
The living room was exactly as we'd left it, only covered in a thin layer of dust. My old grey sweater was still tossed over the back of the couch. Our daughter's cartoon character cup from when she was little sat on the dining table.
Charlotte walked in slowly, her fingers unconsciously tracing a line through the dust on a side table. Her gaze settled on a framed photo on the wall. In it, she was smiling faintly, while I looked at her as if she were the only light in the room.
She quickly looked away, as if the image burned her eyes. But everywhere she looked, she found traces of the life we'd built together—the book I'd never finished, my everyday glasses, the art on the walls, and the custom tea set I'd commissioned just for her.
I had put every piece there for her.
Charlotte walked over to the crib and picked up an old, worn rabbit plush I'd given her years ago. She stared at it for a long time, then her eyes welled up with tears.
As if coming out of a daze, she set it down abruptly and went downstairs. She sat down on the living room couch and dialed my number again.
The phone rang for a long time before disconnecting automatically. Undeterred, she tried again and again. Finally, clutching her scorching phone, she began to murmur softly into the unresponsive phone.
"Shane, I know you can hear me. Just come out and stop hiding." Charlotte paused for a beat. She lowered her voice, making it sharp and almost commanding.
"Answer the phone and… Apologize to me for what happened back then. Also, admit you blocked Leo from coming back to find me. Just say you were wrong.
"I'll forgive you. I won't even make you take the fall for him anymore. I'll find someone else… Just say you're sorry."
As she said that, her voice wavered and trembled with urgency. "Please… Just answer the phone."
I hovered before Charlotte, watching the tears in her eyes and her tightly pressed lips. It was absurd, almost laughable.
I'd never stopped Leo from coming back. He was the one who'd taken money from the Blakes and run off to enjoy himself, only coming back to find her after things went wrong.
So why should I apologize? Besides, how could someone who'd been dead for five years answer the phone? How was I supposed to do so? When no reply came, Charlotte's tone grew brittle with impatience.
"Shane Foster! This is your last chance. You—"
Before she could finish, the call disconnected since no one answered. She stared blankly at the dark screen, then suddenly raised her hand and smashed the nearby lamp to the floor.
"Fine. Have it your way. Let's see how long you can keep hiding."
Charlotte was livid, kicking the door open and walking out without looking back. She had just slid into the driver's seat when her phone rang with a number she didn't recognize.
The voice on the other end asked, "Hello. Are you Lily Foster's family member?"
Charlotte frowned. On any other day, she would have coldly responded, "No," and ended the call without another word. But something about being back in that old house had gotten under her skin.
She hesitated, then answered despite herself, "...Yes. What is this about?"
The voice on the other end was calm and professional.
"I'm calling from Westhill Funeral Home. The ashes of the deceased, Lily Foster, have been in our care for nearly a month. When can we expect you to come and collect them?"
Charlotte looked confused, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
"...What are you talking about? What ashes?" she snapped.
"As stated, the deceased's remains have been held here since her passing, with no one coming forward to make arrangements. We reviewed her records, and this is the only number we were able to reach."
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Charlotte raised her voice, edged with disbelief. "Who put you up to this? Where's Shane? How could he possibly let—"
She stopped mid-sentence. Just then, her phone buzzed several times in succession. The screen lit up with back-to-back messages from her assistant, Liza Carter.
The first one read, "Ms. Blake, we found information about Lily's whereabouts."
Another message followed. "Regrettably, the records show that she passed away in a traffic accident a month ago."
The messages on the screen were tinted with a cold finality. Charlotte's breath was caught in her throat, and the color drained from her face.
The voice on the other end of the line continued its routine questions. "Miss? Are you still there? If you need—"
"The address," Charlotte cut him off. "Send me the address now."
Without waiting for the response, she threw her phone aside and hit the gas. The engine roared as the car shot forward like an arrow. She sped through the streets with reckless abandon, running several red lights and swerving dangerously close to other cars.
I floated in the passenger seat, watching her lips pressed tight, her eyes vacant, and her knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel too hard. She finally knew about her daughter's death, but what good did it do now?
When Charlotte reached the funeral home, she grabbed the front desk attendant. Her voice trembled uncontrollably as she said, "Lily… I'm looking for Lily Foster. Where are her ashes?"
The startled attendant instantly pulled up the records. A few clicks later, she led Charlotte into a stark, temperature-controlled room of storage units.
She stopped before a small, unadorned compartment and opened its simple metal door. Inside sat a plain, modest urn, and a small photograph was taped to its front.
It was my daughter, Lily. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling into the same joyful crescents as I remembered them.
Charlotte's body swayed violently. Her trembling fingers hovered, not daring to touch the urn.
"Why… Why hasn't her father come to collect her ashes?" she murmured to herself, as if asking someone else, or perhaps only herself.
The attendant gave her a puzzled look.
"You didn't know? Lily's father, Shane Foster, died even earlier. According to our records, he passed away before his daughter. There was no way he could have come to claim her ashes."
If the news of our daughter's death had been a shock, the attendant's next statement froze Charlotte where she stood.
"You… What are you talking about? No. That's impossible." Her head snapped up, eyes bloodshot.
"How could he have died earlier? He clearly—"
Charlotte's protest was interrupted again by her phone buzzing in her pocket. As if sensing what was coming, she slowly pulled out her phone.
On the screen, Liza's latest message clearly stated, "Ms. Blake, after thorough verification from multiple sources, it is confirmed that Mr. Foster passed away five years ago.
"The cause of death was due to prolonged abuse. I am still coordinating with the police for the detailed report."
A buzzing sound filled her ear. Charlotte felt as though all strength had been drained from her body. Her fingers loosened, and her phone clattered onto the cold floor.
She stared blankly at the small urn, then slowly lifted her head to look at the empty space before her. Her pupils dilated, glassy and unfocused. Suddenly, her entire body began shaking uncontrollably.
"Why… How could this happen…"
