The next morning, I woke with a strange sense of hope. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Gerald would stay for breakfast, and we could talk. Really talk. Maybe he'd hold Cynthia, and I'd see a glimpse of the man I used to know.
I was an idiot.
"Mr. Roth left early this morning, ma'am," Mrs. Beatrice informed me when I finally made it downstairs, moving slowly because my incision still pulled with every step. "He had meetings starting at seven."
Seven in the morning. On a Saturday.
"Of course he did," I muttered.
Mrs. Beatrice busied herself arranging a bouquet of lilies in a crystal vase, pretending not to hear. "Would you like breakfast? Peter made blueberry pancakes.".
"That sounds wonderful, thank you.", I said forcing a smile.
The dining room could have hosted a state dinner, its long mahogany table gleaming under a chandelier. I sat alone, the clink of my fork against fine china the only sound. The pancakes were perfect, fluffy, sweet, exactly right. They tasted like sawdust in my mouth.
After breakfast, I found myself wandering. The mansion was too big, too empty, too much. Every room was pristine, untouched, as if life had been forbidden from leaving a mark. A formal sitting room with stiff velvet furniture. A music room where a grand piano was covered with a cloth.
How had Erica lived like this? How had she breathed in a place so suffocatingly perfect?
"Mrs. Roth?"
I startled, turning to find Martha in the hallway, a feather duster in her hand.
"Sorry, ma'am," she said quickly. "Didn't mean to scare you. Are you looking for something?"
"No, I just…" I trailed off. What was I doing? "I'm just walking. Doctor said I should move around, help with the healing."
Her expression softened. "Of course. Would you like some company? I could show you around while I work."
I nearly laughed. Show me around my own house. But I caught myself and nodded instead. "That would be nice, actually."
It was becoming my go-to excuse, and I hated how easily the lie slipped out.
Martha led me through the mansion, narrating as she dusted and straightened.
"This is the west wing library, Mr. Roth's grandfather collected first editions. That portrait is of Mr. Roth's great-grandmother; she was apparently quite the character. And this room here, this was your art studio."
I stopped walking. "My what?"
"Your art studio," Martha repeated, opening a door I hadn't noticed before. "Mr. Roth had it set up for you right after the wedding. You used to paint."
The room was flooded with Canvases lined the walls, some blank, some with the beginnings of paintings, landscapes, abstracts, portraits. An easel stood in the center, a paint-stained cloth draped over it. Supplies filled the shelves: oils, acrylics, watercolors, brushes of every size.
I walked slowly into the room, my heart hammering. Erica painted. This whole time, she'd had this creative outlet, this passion, and I'd known nothing about it.
"You stopped coming here when you got pregnant," Martha said softly. "Said the fumes made you sick."
I crossed the room, my pulse quickening. Erica painted. She'd had this secret passion, this piece of herself, and I'd known nothing about it.
I lifted the cloth from the easel, and my breath caught. The painting was of Gerald, not the cold, distant man I knew now, but a younger version, caught mid-laugh, his eyes bright with joy. This was a Gerald who didn't exist anymore, at least not for Erica.
"It's beautiful," I whispered.
"You're very talented, ma'am." Martha moved to dust a shelf. "Mr. Roth used to come in here sometimes, when you weren't around. He'd just stand and look at your work for the longest time."
Something twisted in my chest. Gerald, standing alone in this room, looking at paintings made by a wife he didn't love, searching for… what? Connection?
Understanding? Guilt?
I carefully replaced the cloth and turned away.
"Thank you for showing me this."
"Of course. Would you like to see the gardens? The roses are lovely this time of year."
We continued the tour, and with each room, I pieced together Erica's life. She'd chaired three children's charities, her calendar packed with galas and fundraisers. Her closets overflowed with unworn designer clothes, a costume for the role she played: the perfect wife, the perfect socialite, the perfect mask hiding a breaking heart.
Over the next few days, I made it my mission to know this house, this life, inside and out. I couldn't afford any more slip-ups like forgetting Mrs. Beatrice's name.
I learned Cook was Peter, a fifteen-year veteran of the Roth household. Thomas, the groundskeeper, had a daughter studying marine biology. James, the driver, was saving for a house for his mother. I asked questions because Riley Stevenson had always cared about people's stories. Erica, it seemed, hadn't.
"You seem different," Martha said one afternoon as we passed in the hall. "Lighter, somehow."
My stomach dropped. Different was dangerous.
"Do I?" I forced a laugh. "Maybe it's just relief, being home, Cynthia being healthy…."
"Maybe," she said, but her eyes lingered, curious.
I was more careful after that, tried to be more reserved, more Erica-like. But it was hard. It went against every instinct I had.
In the evenings, Gerald came home late, if he came home at all. Some nights I'd hear him moving through the house around midnight, his footsteps quiet on the marble floors. He never came to our room. Never checked on Cynthia. Never asked how I was feeling.
I told myself it didn't matter. That I deserved this distance, this coldness. That I'd broken his heart, and now I was living with the consequences.
But it did matter. It mattered so much it hurt.
Weeks after coming home, I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to know more. I had to understand Erica, the woman whose life I'd stolen.
When Paulette took Cynthia for her afternoon nap, I went back to the closet where I had hidden it after I read it.
My hands shook as I took it and settled into the chair by the window. Sunlight spilling across the pages as I opened it, revealing Erica's elegant handwriting.
The early entries were routine details, charity events, dinner parties, and shopping trips. The life of a socialite. But as I kept reading, the loneliness bled through.
Week 10: Morning sickness is brutal. Gerald moved to the guest room so my vomiting wouldn't disturb his sleep. I haven't seen him in three days.
Week 15: Found out we're having a girl. Gerald said "that's nice" and went back to his laptop. I'm going to name her Cynthia, after my mother. Gerald doesn't care what we name her.
Week 20: Felt the baby kick today. Gerald was in Tokyo. I called to tell him. He said, "That's wonderful." I cried after we hung up. I cried after. Then I felt guilty because this baby deserves a mother who's not already broken.
Each entry was a knife to the heart. Erica had been so lonely, so desperate for even a scrap of affection from a man who could barely stand to be in the same room with her.
And it was my fault. All of it.
If I'd just said yes to his proposal. If I'd just been brave enough to accept Gerald's love instead of running from it. If I'd just…
"Stop," I whispered to myself. "You can't change the past."
I kept reading.
Week 21: Gerald stayed late at the office again. I had dinner alone. Again. Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers he has a wife.
Week 22: Saw a therapist today. She asked if I was happy. I lied and said yes. What else could I say? That I'm married to a man who looks at me like I'm a stranger? That I wake up alone every morning in a bed meant for two? That I'm about to bring a child into a loveless marriage?
I went back further, to before the pregnancy. Before Cynthia. To a marriage that had been broken from the start.
One year anniversary: Gerald gave me diamond earrings. Beautiful, expensive. We had dinner at a nice restaurant. He checked his phone seventeen times. I counted.
Six months: Gerald never says "I love you". I asked Gerald if he loved me. He said "I respect you." Not the same thing.
Three months: Our wedding night, he called me by another woman's name. He was drunk and didn't remember in the morning. But I remembered. I'll always remember.
My vision blurred with tears. God, Erica. How did you live like this?
But I knew the answer. She'd loved him. Erica had loved him, despite his coldness, despite the pain.
And he'd loved someone else.
He'd loved me.
The guilt was suffocating. I set the journal aside and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears. But they came anyway, hot and bitter and endless.
Cynthia's cry cut through my grief. I wiped my face and went to her, lifting her from the crib.
"Hey, sweet girl," I murmured, rocking her gently. "It's okay. Mama's here."
Mama. The word felt like a lie and a truth all at once.
Later that evening, after feeding Cynthia and putting her down for the night, I returned to the journal. I had to finish reading it. Had to know everything.
The last few entries were dated close to Cynthia's birth.
One week until due date: I'm terrified. Not of labor, though that scares me too. I'm terrified of what comes after. Of raising a daughter in a house without love. Of watching Gerald treat her with the same distant politeness he shows me. She deserves so much more.
Three days until due date: Dr. Rita is worried about my blood pressure. She wants to induce early if it doesn't come down. I'm trying to stay calm, but how can I when my whole world is falling apart?
Then I turned the page and froze.
To my daughter,
A letter. Erica had written a letter to Cynthia.
I stared at those three words, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs. This was private. Sacred. A mother's final words to her child.
I couldn't. I shouldn't.
My finger touched the edge of the page, ready to open it, to read the content.
But something stopped me. Some instinct, some feeling I couldn't name.
This letter wasn't meant for me. It was meant for Cynthia. For a daughter to read when she was old enough to understand. When she could hear her mother's voice through the words and know she'd been loved.
I wasn't that daughter. I was just borrowing her mother's body.
Slowly, carefully, I closed the journal.
"I'll keep it safe for her," I whispered into the empty room. "I promise."
I tucked the journal inbetween the clothes in the closet, hidden where I had kept it before, and walked back to the window.
I pressed my hand against the cool glass and closed my eyes.
"I'll do better, Erica," I said quietly. "For Cynthia. For you. I'll be the mother she needs. I promise."
The words felt like a vow. Like a prayer.