At my daughter's grave on Memorial Day, my son-in-law suddenly asked me:
"Mom, do you know where Sunny lives? Before Julia Chavez died, she always said Sunny was her savior. I'd like to go visit her."
My hand, mid-reach into the burning pile of paper offerings, went rigid.
Because Sunny was the nickname I'd given my daughter when she was little.
Once she was old enough to have opinions, she decided the name was embarrassing and told me to stop using it.
There was no way she would have told her husband that Sunny was her savior.
——
My daughter had been murdered and dismembered three months ago, on a night I would never forget.
She'd been eight months pregnant.
Her belly had been cut open. The fully formed baby inside her hadn't survived either.
When I got the call and rushed to the scene, the carnage was so horrific that I fainted on the spot.
My son-in-law had been equally devastated. He'd stayed beside Julia's body all night, weeping until his hair turned white by morning.
The case shook the entire city.
Everyone cursed the killer's brutality and mourned what had happened to my daughter.
The police formed a task force immediately.
But Julia had been killed in an alley with no surveillance cameras. There were no witnesses, no physical evidence.
It had been raining that night. Every trace on the pavement had been washed clean, leaving not a single clue about the killer.
The task force investigated for days. They had nothing.
My son-in-law, unwilling to let the killer walk free, made a very public announcement: a ten-million-dollar reward for information.
He wanted the whole country looking. He wanted everyone helping to find whoever had murdered his wife.
The story exploded. The entire nation was paying attention, and tips poured in from everywhere.
But three full months passed, and the investigation went nowhere.
Yesterday, the task force was officially disbanded.
The ten-million-dollar reward had failed to produce a killer.
The case was declared cold.
I'd resigned myself to it, too. I thought my daughter's murder might simply go unsolved.
But now, hearing what my son-in-law had just said, something twisted hard inside my chest.
I couldn't help turning to look at him.
"When did Julia say Sunny was her savior?"
He thought for a few seconds, then answered earnestly:
"A few days before she was killed."
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
I stared at his face, dead serious, and pressed again:
"What exactly did she say?"
He glanced at me, then cast his mind back.
"She said that without Sunny, she probably wouldn't have survived. She called Sunny the greatest benefactor of her life and told me that someday, when I had the chance, I had to repay her."
"I asked her who Sunny was, where she lived. She just smiled and said she'd take me to meet her after the baby was born."
"She never got that chance."
His voice dropped lower with every word, until it finally broke into a choked sob.
But all I could do was clench the half-burned paper money tighter in my fist.
Sunny was the pet name I'd given Julia when she was small.
She'd been so tiny back then, soft and sweet-smelling, and I couldn't help calling her Sunny.
When she got older, she started complaining. Mom, that name is so embarrassing. Stop calling me that.
She even made me promise: if she ever got a boyfriend, or got married, I was never, under any circumstances, to mention the name Sunny in front of him. She was terrified of being laughed at.
So from that day on, Sunny became a forbidden word between us.
My daughter had despised that nickname. She would never have brought it up to her husband willingly.
And she certainly would never have called Sunny her savior.
Someone was lying.
While my mind raced, my son-in-law spoke again:
"Mom, Julia grew up with just you. Do you know this Sunny?"
I didn't give him an honest answer.
