Page 28

Chapter 28

Fantasia

V aleria has Piers’s hair and my eyes, and every time I look into them I feel my heart break all over again.

She's sitting in her high chair, methodically destroying a banana while babbling happily to herself. Her red curls are a wild mess despite my best efforts with a brush this morning, and there's already jam from her toast smeared across one chubby cheek. At fifteen months old, she's a force of nature- stubborn, curious, and completely fearless.

Just like her father.

I push that thought away as I wipe her face clean, earning an indignant squawk of protest. “I know, I know,” I murmur, smoothing back her hair. “Mummy’s so mean, making you be clean.”

She rewards my efforts by immediately shoving more banana in her mouth, most of it missing entirely.

I can't help but smile. Even on my worst days, even when the guilt and loneliness threaten to swallow me whole, Valeria's presence is like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She saved me, in more ways than one.

The pregnancy was brutal. Morning sickness that lasted all day, complications that had me on bed rest for weeks, and the constant, gnawing fear that I would fail this child before she even took her first breath. Labor was worse- thirty-six hours of agony, faced entirely alone except for the kind midwife I hired, who held my hand and reassured me I could do it. A hospital birth without insurance would’ve cost a fortune, and I couldn’t afford that.

But the moment she placed her in my arms, red-faced and screaming... everything changed.

I had to change.

For her.

Valeria means strength. I chose it because I needed her to be stronger than me, braver than me, better than me in every way. And in her fifteen months of life, she’s already proven to be exactly that.

I spent hours in therapy with her in my arms, my baby tucked safely in her carrier while I worked through every trauma, every fear, and every regret. My therapist, Dr. Halston, was a no-nonsense woman who had seen it all. Her experience with addiction and recovery was exactly what I needed. She didn’t sugarcoat things, didn’t let me off the hook with excuses. She helped me face my demons head-on, and that wasn’t easy. Sometimes, I’d leave her office shaking, but I always felt stronger after.

I went to an AA group in a nearby town, a small circle of people who were all battling their own issues. They didn’t look at me with pity, didn’t judge me for my past. They just listened.

And I read. Everything I could get my hands on. Self-help books. Parenting guides. Books on overcoming addiction, on building a better life, on finding the courage to be vulnerable. I devoured them. It was all a slow climb, but with each page, I built the foundation for something better, something I could give to Valeria. She became the reason I kept going, the reason I didn’t give up.

In the quiet moments, when I was too scared to look at the past or face the future, it was Valeria’s tiny hand in mine that gave me the strength to push through. And through all of it, Dr. Halston was there, guiding me like a steady anchor, reminding me that change was possible, that I wasn’t beyond saving. Together, they gave me the strength to face myself, to admit that I needed help, that I couldn’t keep running forever. And now, every time I look at Valeria, I see the courage and strength I thought I’d never have.

The clock on the wall catches my eye- nearly time for our morning walk into town. I clean Valeria up properly this time, changing her into a fresh outfit and packing her diaper bag while she toddles around the living room, “helping” by moving her toys from one spot to another.

Our house is small but bright, with worn hardwood floors and walls I painted myself during my pregnancy. The kitchen needs updating, and the back porch creaks ominously when it rains, but it’s ours. Safe. Private. Home.

I bought it outright with the money Achilles left me, knowing I couldn’t risk a mortgage or any kind of paper trail. I funneled the purchase through a land trust, keeping my name off the records and ensuring no one could trace it back to me. Every dollar is carefully budgeted, stretched as far as I can make it go, but it won’t last forever. Soon, I’ll need to find work.

The thought makes my stomach clench. How can I work and still be there for Valeria? How can I trust anyone else with her safety?

I check my reflection in the hall mirror as I gather my things. I look... different. Softer, maybe. My hair is longer than it used to be, fuller too- healthier. Probably from eating real meals, staying sober, and shedding some of the stress that used to weigh me down. There are faint lines under my eyes that hadn’t been there two years ago, but my face has more color now, a warmth that wasn’t there before. Perhaps from the time I spend outside- with Valeria at the playground, in the garden, just living.

I don’t look like the ghost I used to be. I don’t look like a Warwick or an Ashwood or anyone else’s weapon.

I just look like Valeria’s mother.

She waddles up to me, arms raised in silent demand. I scoop her up, resting her on my hip, and press a kiss to her temple. “Ready to go, love?”

She claps her hands, delighted, as if she understands that our walk to town is one of the best parts of both our days.

We step outside, greeted by the lingering chill of early spring, the air still crisp but carrying the first hints of warmth. The wind carries the scent of damp earth and fresh grass, and the trees lining our path are budding with the soft greens of new growth. Valeria babbles happily in my ear as I settle her into the stroller, adjusting the little sweater I’d bundled her in.

The town I chose to disappear into is little more than a dot on the map, nestled between forested hills and winding country roads no one has any reason to pass through. The houses are mostly older, with wide porches and weathered shutters, and the shops along the main street all belong to families who’ve been here for generations.

It’s quiet. Ordinary. Safe.

And for the first time in my life, I’ve let myself be ordinary too.

The small town has been kinder to me than I deserve. They welcomed me- Sarah, I tell them to call me- with open arms. A young mother starting over, they say. So brave, they whisper.

They don’t ask questions. They don’t pry into the past I carry like an old wound. When I arrived, pregnant and alone, they embraced me without hesitation. The old women in the market cooed over my belly and slipped me extra bread with knowing looks. The waitress at the café offered me chamomile tea instead of coffee without being asked. When Valeria was born, my neighbor left a handmade quilt on my porch with a card that simply read, For your little one. Here if you ever need anything.

They bring casseroles when Valeria is sick and offer babysitting services. And yet, even now, with all the kindness I've been shown, I still struggle to accept it. I take what Valeria needs, but never more. I nod politely when comfort is offered, but rarely reach for it. Because one day, all of this could vanish. One day, the past I left behind might come looking for me.

Which is why I always check in at the bookstore.

The bell above the door chimes as I push the stroller inside, the scent of worn paper and sawdust greeting me. The place is small, the kind of independent shop that specializes in battered secondhand novels and obscure treasures buried in high, dusty shelves.

Lucy, the clerk who's probably younger than I am but who treats me like a little sister, looks up from her phone with a bright smile.

“Sarah! And little Val!” She comes around the counter to coo at my daughter, who gives her a shy smile.

“Morning,” I reply, lifting Valeria out of her stroller. She wriggles excitedly, reaching for Lucy as she takes my daughter to the basket of children’s books she keeps near the register just for her.

“No strangers in town,” she reports, answering my unasked question. “Though Mrs. Peterson said her nephew might visit next month.”

I nod, relieved but also guilty for using her this way. She thinks she's helping me avoid an abusive ex, and in a way, she is. Just... not the way she thinks.

“Thanks for keeping an eye out.”

Lucy shrugs, as if keeping watch for strange men is just another chore on her to-do list, like restocking the shelves or dusting the counters. “Like I said, small town. Newcomers stand out. If anyone’s looking for you, I’ll know.”

I nod, glancing down at Valeria, who has settled onto the floor with a book, gleefully turning its pages. “I appreciate it.”

Lucy hesitates for a moment, then rests an elbow on the counter. “You know, you could let people in a little more. You're not actually alone here.”

I exhale through my nose. “I know.”

But Lucy smiles like she doesn’t quite believe me, and she’s not wrong. I might have built a life for myself here, but I’ve kept a part of myself walled off from everyone. Maybe always will.

“Mind if I browse?”

“Take your time! I just got in some new board books Val might like.”

I push the stroller toward the children's section, but my eyes catch on the newspaper rack. The headline grabs my attention.

NEW YORK MAFIA GROUP SUSPECTED IN MIDWEST TURF WAR

Rising Power Threatens East Coast Families

I pause, skimming the article. The piece details a series of targeted attacks on rival operations, each strike swift and deliberate- warehouses burned, supply lines disrupted, key players disappearing overnight.

“Mummy?” Valeria's voice pulls me back. She's reaching for a book with a rabbit on the cover, her favorite animal this week.

I put the paper down and lift the book for her. “Here you go, little warrior.”

As she happily flips through the pages, I try to push away thoughts of Piers. Of what could have been. Of the future he wanted for us.

This is our future now. Small and quiet and safe.

And if sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, I wonder if I made the right choice...

Well.

I look down at our daughter, at her perfect face and tiny hands, at the future I'm trying to build for her, and I know.

I had to protect her.

Even if it meant breaking both our hearts to do it.