Page 36 of This Life of Mine

Working fifteen-hour days, six days a week, takes its toll.

Val and I both try not to stay until closing, knowing our team can handle it, but truthfully, I rarely have the desire to leave. Most days, I have to be the one who forces Val out the door.

She carries guilt when she leaves early, worried she isn’t doing enough. I remind her that she is. That family matters. That her beautiful baby girl matters.

If things had been different, I would be rushing home every day too. I would go straight to my little guy, holding him as tightly as possible. But things aren’t different.

I try not to linger there. Thinking about Danny pulls me into a place that’s hard to climb out of.

No mother deserves to endure the suffering that comes with the loss of a child, delivered or in utero.

Danny lived for a single hour after I gave birth to him. Embracing him when he was alive and breathing, sensing his warmth, and sorrowfully embracing him once more after he departed, is an experience that will be imprinted on my soul forever.

If he were still alive, I’m not certain I’d be running a bakery. His brief life and his death changed everything. I escaped a marriage that was ruining me, and in the process, discovered a strength I never knew I had. Losing him gave me the bravery to create the life I’d only dreamed of.

Steam still clings to the mirror as I study my reflection and give a small, satisfied shrug.

Being thirty-six, single, with a C-section scar and no living children has given me a new level of insecurity I never expected.

I work out obsessively, almost every night after closing, pushing myself for hours out of boredom and the need to quiet my mind enough to sleep.

My curves are a mix of discipline and genetics. A double-D chest, a small but curvy waist, and glutes built through years of stubborn determination and more squats than any sane person should endure.

Half Korean, half white, I have pale skin, dark hair, and freckles scattered across my nose. The freckles make me appear younger than my mid-thirties, which is useful when I want it to be and mildly irritating when I don’t.

My mixed features tend to throw people off. They can never quite place me, and I see the question before they ever ask it.

Though I carry myself with confidence now, I never mix that confidence with arrogance.

Growing up poor teaches humility early. Growing up multicultural teaches an appreciation for contrast, fordifference, for nuance. But loss—especially the kind inflicted by a narcissist who breaks you down piece by piece—teaches something deeper. It sharpens empathy until you carry more than you ever thought possible, until you recognize pain in others without a word being spoken.

And still, after everything, I know my worth.

I run my fingers gently over my C-section scar and close my eyes. “Mommy misses you, Danny,” I whisper.

When I open my eyes again, I pull my coat closed and tie it, steadying myself.

“Well, this is as good as it gets,” I say to myself before heading out.

I pull up outside EJ’s house and send him a text, then sit and wait for a reply.

I get out of the car and walk up the driveway to the door. The front porch light is off, but I guess not unusual for EJ.

Even though he asked me to come in, I still knock.

I think, briefly, how strange, and honestly a little lazy, that EJ won’t even bother to greet me at the door. I reach for the doorknob and push it open.

The house is dark. Every light is off.

The hallway stretches out ahead, empty and quiet, shadows pooling where corners should be familiar. From where I stand, I can’t see much to either side. I see there’s a window to the left, where I remember the dining room sits, and the living area to the right, but both disappear into the darkness.

If I want to see anything more, I’ll have to step inside, but my gut feeling is flaring, telling me to turn around and run back to my car.

Something about this seems off. And yet, like the curious idiot I can sometimes be, I stay rooted to the porch.

“EJ?” I call out, my voice sounding louder than I expect in the quiet.

Nothing answers me.