I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

but his eyes are mine. Or maybe mine are his.

I grip the baby blanket so tightly my fingers ache.

“You’re dead,” I whisper.

He looks at me the way a father looks at a child who has finally found a door he was never meant to open. Not angry. Not surprised. Heartbroken.

“No, son,” he says. “Your mother only made you believe I was.”

Behind me, Margaret’s continue reading …