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The night before we were supposed to get our marriage license, my fiancé died in a car crash on the highway.
His father arranged the funeral. His cousin packed up his belongings. Everyone told me to move on.
I kept watch over the home we'd built, and I kept the wedding dress I never got to wear.
Then, six months later, the wedding suit I'd designed for Seth James myself was picked up by someone else. The new receptionist looked at me, all envy, and said,
"Autumn Locke, that suit fit your fiancé perfectly."
My hands shook as I took the claim slip. The suit had been picked up five days ago.
His cousin happened to call right then. "Autumn, I already got Seth's suit back. The old folks said they wanted something to remember him by, and it'll spare you from having to look at his things and grieve all over again."
The next day, going through his old tablet, I found a paternity test.
His mother rushed to explain. "The hospital mixed up the results. Seth returned it on the spot. Plenty of people share the same name!"
Every time after that, no matter how outrageous the evidence I turned up, they always had some excuse ready to smooth it over.
Until the seventh day, when I posted a blurry parking-garage screenshot in our family group chat.
I said I'd seen a man who looked a lot like Seth James, driving his car, going into a postpartum recovery center on the South Side.
This time it was my mother and my sister who called back.
"That's Seth's cousin, and the car was one Seth lent him before he died."
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into Serenity Postpartum Recovery Center? Don't go making things up over the back of some stranger's head."
My sister even brought up the death records to remind me.
"Seth James was cremated ages ago. How long are you going to keep making a scene?"
I stared at that line, and finally a bitter laugh slipped out.
Because there was no parking-garage screenshot. I'd faked the picture.
I only wanted to bait out which recovery center he and his mistress were hiding in.
What I never expected was that the first one to bite would be my own mother.
1
I closed the group chat and immediately took a cab to the South Side.
Once I had the name of the recovery center, the rest was easy.
In the cab, the messages kept jumping up in the chat, one after another.
"Sweetheart, don't work yourself up over nothing."
"Sis, it's been half a year since he was cremated. How long are you going to keep this up?"
"Autumn, have you just been overtired lately?"
Every one of them was pushing me to believe the same thing. Seth James was dead.
But I only believed my own eyes.
When I got there, the receptionist asked if I had an appointment.
I said I wanted to look at postpartum recovery packages, that I was planning to have a baby next year.
She handed me a visitor's pass and cheerfully pointed me toward the VIP area on the third floor.
I walked down the hallway,
and in the room at the very end, I saw Seth James.
He was wearing the gray cardigan I'd given him, standing at the formula machine testing the water temperature.
I'd given him that cardigan last year, an anniversary gift.
He'd held me then and said that on the day we got our license, he'd wear it too.
Six months ago, on the day we were supposed to get that license, I held his urn and cried until I passed out.
Six months later, he stood there in that same cardigan, mixing formula, practiced and easy, for the baby he'd had with someone else.
He headed for the inner bedroom. I ducked behind the wall.
And I saw the woman on the bed.
It was Willow Locke.
Her hair was up in a bun, and she was in a pink postpartum robe, reaching out to Seth James with a smile, whining to be held.
"Seth, my back hurts. Hold me!"
Seth laughed, all indulgence, set down the bottle, and sat on the edge of the bed to rub her back.
"We're married now, and you're still calling me Seth?"
Willow Locke laughed.
"Force of habit."
In that instant, I couldn't hear anything at all.
At last I understood why my mother had been the first to bite.
Because this baby was her grandchild too.
I stumbled back to the stairwell. In the family chat, my mother was messaging again.
"Autumn, I made you soup. Stop working yourself up and come home to eat!"
"Where are you? Should I come pick you up? The soup's going cold, you need to drink it while it's hot!"
I laughed.
In twenty years, my mother had never once made soup just for me. She only ever cooked the dishes my sister loved.
Now, to keep me from going to the recovery center and ruining things for them, she'd actually made soup just for me.
I leaned against the wall and typed it out, word by word.
"Mom, save the soup for Willow. She's the one who needs it to recover."
A minute later, a baby's cry came from behind the door.
Seth James scooped up the child and left, Willow Locke following behind him.
I turned aside to let them pass and quietly trailed them all the way to the underground garage.
They opened the trunk and loaded in luggage. It looked like they were running.
I couldn't hold back anymore. I walked over and stood in front of the car.
