My family locked me in the basement to give birth. Days later, they returned to find a dark red liquid seeping from the door. As my mother screamed, a voice whispered behind her, “Looking for me?”

page. A sun-drenched park bench, their fingers seamlessly intertwined, his lips pressed softly against her temple.

The dates scrawled in my mother’s elegant calligraphy confirmed the timeline. These were not ancient history; these were captured during the agonizing months David claimed he “required space to process his individual trauma.”

The disjointed continue reading …