Chapter 6: The Memory I Buried
I didn’t remember driving.
I only remembered sitting in the car afterward.
The engine was off.
The rain was hitting the windshield.
And my entire life felt like it had shifted.
Vanessa sat beside me.
Marcus was gone.
Emily was asleep inside the house.
“I need you to tell me everything,” I said.
Vanessa stared straight ahead.
“I wanted to.””
“When?””
She closed her eyes.
“Before we got married.””
I looked at her.
“What?””
“I tried.””
“Then why didn’t you?””
Her voice cracked.
“Because you were happy.””
I almost couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“You kept a secret about my daughter because I was happy?””
“No.””
She shook her head.
“Because I was afraid.””
“Afraid of what?””
She looked at me.
“That you would hate me.””
I waited.
Finally, she spoke.
“After we adopted Emily, she started having nightmares.””
“I knew that.””
“No. You knew the small ones.””
Her fingers trembled.
“She would wake up screaming about a basement.””
I frowned.
“A basement?””
Vanessa nodded.
“She said there was a red door.””
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
Because I remembered something.
A red door.
Not from Emily.
From me.
Years ago.
Before Nashville.
Before our current house.
My old family home had a basement door painted red.
I had forgotten.
Or convinced myself I had.
Vanessa saw my expression.
“You remember.””
I looked away.
“No.””
“You do.””
I rubbed my forehead.
“I remember the house.””
“And?””
I closed my eyes.
Images came back.
A small child crying.
A dark hallway.
A man yelling.
I opened my eyes.
“Who was there?””
Vanessa was silent.
“Who was there, Vanessa?””
She whispered:
“Your brother.””
The room went cold.
My brother Ethan.
The one person I never thought to question.
He had been gone for years.
Moved away.
Started a new life.
At least that was what everyone told me.
“No.””
Vanessa looked at me.
“Yes.””
“That doesn’t make sense.””
“Because you don’t remember.””
I stood up.
“I would remember something like that.””
“Would you?””
Her question hurt.
Because deep down…
I knew.
There were pieces missing.
Small moments.
Lost conversations.
Things I blamed on stress.
On grief.
On time.
I walked into Emily’s room.
She was asleep.
Her stuffed rabbit was tucked under her arm.
I sat beside her.
“Daddy?””
My eyes widened.
She was awake.
“Hey, sweetheart.””
She looked at me.
“Are you mad?””
“No.””
“Even if I remember?””
My heart stopped.
“What do you remember?””
She looked toward the hallway.
Then whispered:
“Uncle Ethan.””
I felt like the air had been pulled from the room.
“What about Uncle Ethan?””
Emily’s eyes filled with tears.
“He told me you wouldn’t come.””
I held my breath.
“What?””
“He said you forgot about me.””
My hands started shaking.
“Emily…”
“He said Mommy would blame herself.””
I stared at my daughter.
Every piece of the puzzle was moving.
But one piece didn’t fit.
I turned to Vanessa.
“Why didn’t you tell me Ethan was involved?””
She looked down.
“Because I thought he was gone.””
“And now?””
Her phone suddenly buzzed.
She looked at the screen.
Then her face changed.
“What?””
I stepped closer.
“What is it?””
She slowly handed me the phone.
A message.
From Ethan.
Three words.
*I found her.*
And underneath it was a photo.
May you like
A photo of Emily sleeping in her bed.
Taken from inside our house.
