Visiting her daughters grave, the mother saw an unfamiliar girl sitting on the bench, whispering to the portrait on the headstone. Her heart froze.
The last rays of evening light seeped through the heavy curtains, spilling weary, dull stripes across the expensive Persian rug. The air in the drawing room, usually fragrant with rare flowers and fine perfume, felt thick and chargedheavy with the promise of a storm.
“Again, Katie? William, do you honestly expect me to look after her?” Christinas voice, usually soft and honeyed, trembled with suppressed fury. She stood in the center of the room, flawless in her silk dressing gown, like porcelain carved to perfection, and fixed her husband with a defiant glare. “She has a nanny! And your ex-wifeher grandmotheris still alive! Why must I drop everything again?”
William, a man with silver at his temples and the assured posture of authority, did not look up from his papers. His calm was deceptive, like the stillness before thunder.
“Weve discussed this, Christina. Twice a month. Two Saturday evenings. Its not a requestits the bare minimum you agreed to when you became my wife. Mrs. Whitcombe needs respite. And my *former wife*, as you so delicately put it, lives in another county and rarely sees the child. Katie is my blood. And, incidentally, the daughter of Olivia. Your *former* friend.”
He spoke the last words with the faintest pressure, but Christina felt it like a blow. That connection infuriated her most of all.
“Friend,” she scoffed bitterly. “You mean the same Olivia who threw everything away and had a child by some nobody, leaving you to clean up the mess?”
The words escaped before she could stop them. Christina fell silent at once, biting her lip. A chill ran down her spine. She watched as William slowly set down his papers and lifted his gazeheavy, emotionless. A memory surfaced: six months ago, when Katie had spilled juice on the sofa, and Christina had seized her by the arm, shrieking in her faceand then he had appeared. No shouting, no gestures. He had simply taken Christinas wrist, moved it aside, and said with icy clarity:
“If you lay a hand on her againif anything happens to her because of youI will break every one of your fingers. One by one. Do you understand?”
She had understood then, just as she understood now. This man, who had given her luxury and rescued her from poverty, did not love her. He tolerated her. And she feared himterribly, to the point of trembling. There was nowhere to run. The thought of returning to that cramped flat with her drunken parents was worse than any punishment. She had locked herself in this gilded prison, and now her jailer was a little girl.
Christinas tone shifted instantly. Tears welled in her eyes, her voice softening to honey.
“William, darling, forgive me I didnt mean it. Im just so tired Ive waited weeks for this doctors appointmentI cant miss it.”
But William was no longer listening. He waved away her excuses as if shooing a fly. His attention was fixed on the doorway, where a childs laughter rang out. There, in the playroom, Katie sat on the floor with Mrs. Whitcombe, stacking wooden blocks into a tower. Williams face transformedthe sternness vanished, his eyes filling with warm, almost sacred tenderness. He strode forward, swept the girl into his arms, and spun her in the air. Katie shrieked with delight, clinging to his neck.
Christina watched from the drawing room. Her heart clenched with icy, seething hatred. She was an outsider in this world. Superfluous. A decorative piece in a lavish home. And as long as Katie existed, it would always be this way. In her mind, hardened by years of survival, a cold resolution formed. *Dont worry,* she thought, addressing the child. *Today, we say goodbye, little nuisance.*
From youth, Christina had known exactly what she wanted. Beauty was her only weapon and currency. While her friend Olivia dreamed of love and scribbled poetry, Christina studied lists of wealthy men. Her choice fell on WilliamOlivias father, twenty-five years her senior, but a man of power, wealth, and status.
Betrayal? The word held no meaning for her. She seduced her best friends father without hesitation. For Olivia, it was devastation. She left, vanished. A year later, William learned she had given birth to a daughter. Four years after thatshe was gone. A tragic accident.
Grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, William poured all his love into the granddaughter he had found and brought home. Katie became the center of his world. And Christina, the young, beautiful wife, was pushed aside. The child was a living reminder of her treacheryand the greatest obstacle to her complete control over William and his fortune. That obstacle had to be removed.
Her plan was simple and brutal. First, preparation. Under a plausible pretext, Christina dismissed the vigilant Mrs. Whitcombe, replacing her with a young, absent-minded nanny named Ninaa university student perpetually glued to her phone. It was all part of the design.
On Saturday, while William was away at a meeting, Christina watched from the window as Nina took Katie to the playground. She waited. And thensuccess. Ninas phone rang; she wandered off, absorbed in conversation, leaving the girl unattended. Christina stepped outside, approached with a smile.
“Katie, darling, your grandfather asked me to take you somewhere special. Shall we go?”
The girl, trusting “Auntie Christina,” nodded eagerly. Minutes later, they were in the car. In the rearview mirror, Christina saw Nina frantically searching the playground. Her lips curled in satisfaction.
The drive was long. At first, Katie peered out the window with interest, then began to whimper, and soonto sob.
“I want Grandpapa! I want to go home!”
Christina drove calmly, turning up the radio to drown out the cries. She drove for hours, deep into the countryside, along crumbling roads, until the city was far behind. At last, she stopped at the rusted gate of an old, abandoned cemetery. Ancient oaks cast long, sinister shadows over the overgrown graves.
She hauled the weeping child from the car. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rotting leaves.
“Were here,” Christina said. “This is your new home. Grandpapa wont find you. Goodbye.”
Katie, terrified, lunged for the carbut Christina shoved her back. The girl fell, wailing. To silence her, Christina struck her across the cheek. Katie froze, staring up with eyes full of tears and terror. Christina climbed into the car, started the engine, and drove away without a glance. In the mirror, for a fleeting moment, she saw a tiny figure on the path, instinctively waving. Thena turn. Silence. Christina pressed the accelerator.
For Evelyn, Saturday was sacred. Every week, she walked to the cemetery. Dressed plainly in a dark frock, a shawl over her head, she moved through the village, avoiding sympathetic glances. She needed no pity, no empty words. This journey was hers alone.
Twelve years ago, she had come here. Her daughter, Emily, ten years old, had been diagnosed with a rare, incurable bone disease. Doctors prescribed quiet and fresh air. Her husband couldnt bear ithe vanished. Evelyn was left alone.
At first, it was unbearable. She shut herself away in grief, tending to her dying child. But the village wouldnt let her. Neighborsbrisk Margaret and quiet, kind-hearted Norabrought food, made her rest. Slowly, the ice in her heart began to melt. She learned to accept help. And thento give it. She understood: pain shared is pain halved.
Seven years ago, Emily had passed. Many expected Evelyn to leavereturn to the city, leave this place behind. But she stayed. The village had become her home, its people her family. The grief hadnt vanished; it had settled inside her, a quiet, constant sorrow woven into her days. She lived simply: tending her garden, helping neighbors, passing quiet evenings. She expected nothing moreonly solace in caring for others.
Today, as usual, she walked to the cemetery. Along the way, Margaret, watering geraniums on her porch, called out.
“Evie, off to the graveyard again?” she chided gently. “Rememberings right and proper, but tormenting yourself every week does no good. Youll trouble Emilys spiritand yourself. Let her go, love. Shes at peace.”
“Ill just sit a while, Margaret,” Evelyn replied softly, offering a faint smile. “Not long.”
She nodded and continueddown the narrow path leading to the old churchyard on the outskirts, where her Emmy lay beneath a spreading oak.
As she neared the grave, Evelyn froze. On the bench by the railings sat a little girl. Filthy, trembling, in a thin dressas if lost in the world. A fresh bruise darkened her cheek. She wasnt crying, only whispering to Emilys photograph on the headstone. Evelyn listened.
“…can I sit with you?” the girl murmured. “
