I stared at the two red lines, my stomach lurching.
Was this a gift from God?
A flicker of joy sparked inside me, only to be swallowed whole by the grief of losing my daughter.
My daughter had left me just yesterday.
I forced myself to push open the door to her room, tears brimming as I packed her toys into a box, one by one.
Then I saw the smart speaker sitting on her nightstand. The tears spilled instantly. My hands trembled as I picked it up.
She used to record her day on this speaker, little updates and things she wanted to tell me. Every night before bed, she'd curl up on my lap and play them back, beaming the whole time.
I raised my stiff hand and tapped the last recording, desperate to hear her voice, to pretend she was still beside me.
But the voice that came through wasn't my daughter's. It was Mabel's breathy moan.
"Baby, thank God Amber's such an idiot. She got so wasted she didn't even realize she signed her own daughter's heart transplant consent form."
What did that mean?
My legs buckled. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, my eyes locked on the speaker.
It came flooding back. A week ago, Mabel had come to me with a glass of wine, wanting to talk. She kept pouring, glass after glass, until my head was swimming and she guided my hand across a piece of paper to sign my name.
I was the one who killed my daughter.
My hands shook violently. The speaker slipped from my grip and hit the floor. I pressed my palms over my ears, choking on the pain.
"I'd give up everything for you and our baby. Amber means nothing. I only want you two. At least her daughter's heart is good for something..."
Then came Guy's ragged panting.
I had believed I'd found my way into his heart. Only now did I understand that the person he would give up everything for had never been me.
Every scrap of happiness I thought I'd had was nothing more than overflow from Guy's love for Mabel. Scraps tossed my way from a feast that was never mine.
My heart seized as though an ice-cold fist had clamped around it and twisted. The pain bent me double. I couldn't breathe.
A voice broke through from outside the door. "Ma'am, if we don't leave now, we'll miss the funeral."
I bit down hard, swallowing the urge to tear Guy apart with my bare hands. I copied the last recording from the speaker, steadied myself on shaking legs, and left with the assistant for the funeral.
The service was nearly over. I had just worked up the nerve to confront Guy when Mabel appeared, a hint of a smile in her eyes, carrying a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
Her face wore a mask of tender concern. Then she opened the bag and pulled out the papers inside, one by one.
"Big sis, I brought you three gifts. You're going to love them."
She handed me the first sheet, smiling sweetly. "Gift number one: Guy's vasectomy certificate."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
I stared at the cold date printed on the report. My nails dug into my palm hard enough to draw blood, but I felt nothing.
The date of the procedure was right there in black and white: the day after my daughter died.
Mabel looked me up and down, savoring my ashen face, then placed the second report directly into my hands. She lowered her gaze and stroked her stomach.
"I'm three months pregnant. It's Guy's."
In that moment, it felt like someone was slowly siphoning every last molecule of air from my lungs.
Three months ago was when my daughter's checkup results had come back wrong. The doctor said it was minor, but she'd need surgery to fix it completely.
That night, I'd cried in Guy's arms. I hadn't seen the flash of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Leave everything to me."
His touch had been so gentle when he comforted me that night.
Now I understood. His "everything" had never included me or my child.
Mabel's warm, venomous breath against my ear dragged me back. She leaned in close, whispering with quiet triumph.
"All I did was mention to Guy that my heart wasn't in great shape, and he arranged the compatibility testing immediately. Your daughter was lucky, really, being a match for me. And the transplant consent? Signed by your own hand."
Each word was a blade, stabbing into the place that hurt most.
"Oh, and there's nothing in that casket, by the way. Your daughter's probably still on the operating table, making herself useful. Hearts aren't the only organs worth good money."
My body shook. The last thread holding my mind together snapped.
What did she just say?
A dull thud.
I raised my hand to slap her across the face, but the sound of something heavy hitting the ground stopped me.
I whipped around. My mother's face was white as chalk, crumpled on the floor.
"Mom!"
Nothing else mattered. I threw myself to her side, fumbling for my phone with trembling hands, and called an ambulance.
I barely remember how I got to the hospital. I watched my unconscious mother disappear through the operating room doors, and I felt as though I were sinking into an endless darkness.
The man I loved had betrayed me and murdered my daughter.
Tears blurred my vision, but I knew I couldn't sit here and do nothing any longer.
Seven days. In seven days, they would pay for every last thing they'd done.
