Emerald's Absence
Some women aren't meant to be mothers. But that doesn't mean I killed my child. After giving birth to my daughter, Emerald, a profound and unsettling sense of detachment consumed me. I knew I wasn't built for motherhood. Then, she vanished from her crib, and my husband's eyes filled with suspicion. The police think I'm a lunatic. But someone took my child. What really happened to Emerald?
The scent of artificial apricot from a burning candle hung heavy in the air. You were drifting in and out of sleep on the living room couch, the unusual feeling of tranquility a stark contrast to the usual chaos of life with a six-month-old.
"Cordelia!" Weston's voice, sharp with panic, jolted you awake. He rushed into the room, jacket still on, eyes wide.
"Where is she?"
Confusion clouded your mind. "Who?"
"Emerald! Who do you think?"
"In her crib."
"No, she's not."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Your heart, finally catching up to the warning bells that should have been ringing, sank. You raced to the nursery, flicked on the light, and peered into the crib. Empty.
