After our daughter's suicide, my husband threw a party with his friends to cheer me up. After a few rounds of drinks, his childhood friend, Misty, suggested we play a game of "Never Have I Ever." The rules were simple: if you haven't done the thing someone says, you fold down a finger. The first person to fold down all five fingers loses. Misty went five times in a row. I lost every single round. And in doing so, I finally learned the real reason my daughter was dead. I smiled, saying nothing as I pulled a revolver and a single bullet from my handbag. "Now," I said. "Let's play a new game." 1 It was supposed to be a gathering to help me heal, to comfort me in the suffocating grief of losing my child. That all changed the moment Misty walked in. The door to the private lounge flew open, and she breezed in like a storm. "Sorry I'm late! I'll down three shots to make up for it!" Without even a glance in my direction, she slid into the booth right next to my husband, Ryan, and draped an arm around his neck. Ryan didn't push her away. Misty bit the cap off a beer bottle with her teeth, then pressed her lips to his, pouring the entire bottle into his mouth. She tilted her head, her eyes locking with mine over the top of the bottle. "This is how the big boys drink. You don't mind, do you, Lena?" Our friends exchanged nervous glances. I, his wife, said nothing. I had been a statue since I’d arrived, my hands frozen on the handbag in my lap. My silence seemed to be a relief to the others, who quickly raised their glasses and started challenging Misty to drinking games. A few rounds later, Misty's cheeks were flushed. She swayed slightly, a sly smile on her face. "You know what? We should play a game." She held up five fingers. "I'll say something I've done. If you haven't done it, you fold one finger down. First one with all five fingers down loses and has to take a shot." Everyone's interest was piqued. They all held up their hands, a circle of open palms. It was as if they had completely forgotten why we were here in the first place. Misty, as the instigator, went first. She flicked her wrist, showing off a glittering sapphire bracelet. Her voice, sickly sweet, filled the room. "This is a Hawthorne family heirloom. Supposed to be passed down only to the daughter-in-law." She shot a look at Ryan. "But my Ry-Ry stole it from his mom and gave it to me back in high school! I bet none of you have one of these, right?" The room fell silent. Everyone looked at me, the air thick with embarrassment. I stared at the bracelet, a vague sense of recognition stirring. It took me a long moment to place it. I had once asked Ryan to use a matching photo for our social media profile pictures. He’d refused, and it had turned into a massive fight, one where he’d even threatened to break up. We made up, but we never spoke of it again. The picture he had refused to change, the one he held onto so fiercely, was of a hand wearing that exact sapphire bracelet. I lowered my eyes to the plain gold band on my own ring finger and slowly, deliberately, folded down my thumb. I said nothing. Someone tried to smooth things over. "Come on, Misty, you're always over at Lena's place. You two are like sisters. Give us some real secrets!" Misty laughed. "Of course! Lena and I are thick as thieves. I even made her a special turtle soup once! Bet none of you have done that!" A friend immediately jeered. "No way! You, a tomboy, know how to cook?" She lifted her chin smugly. "Tossing a few things in a pot isn't rocket science. It's nothing compared to the hard work a man does out in the world." My mind, rusted and slow, began to turn. After a long moment, my lips parted. "What turtle soup?" I had never had any soup made by Misty. The friends nudged her, teasing. "Aha! You're cheating just to win!" Misty's eyes narrowed into a grin. Her voice dropped, but every word was crystal clear. "It was when Lena was three months pregnant with her first. I was just learning to cook, so I made her a special tonic. A wild pheasant and turtle soup." The moment she spoke, the phantom scent of something thick and cloying filled my nostrils. A sticky, medicinal odor mixed with the metallic tang of blood, piercing the deepest part of my memory. I remembered my first pregnancy. Ryan had brought me a bowl of murky, black liquid, telling me it was good for my health. I'd spooned up a small, hard piece, like a fragment of a shell. Before I could ask what it was, Ryan had snatched it and thrown it in the trash. He held the spoon to my lips. "Misty made this especially for you. Don't be picky." I had touched my slightly swelling belly and obediently opened my mouth, finishing the entire bowl. Not a drop was left. That night, a dull ache started in my abdomen. By the time I realized what was happening, blood had soaked through the bedsheets. In the emergency room, the doctor shook his head. He said I'd consumed too many "cooling" foods. The baby was gone. The moment I was off the operating table, my mother-in-law's hand cracked across my face. She called me a gluttonous, stupid pig who couldn't even protect her own child. But from the day I found out I was pregnant, I checked the ingredients of every cookie I ate. How could I have been so careless? When I got home from the hospital, I searched the house like a madwoman. I tasted sauces, spices, freezer-burned meat from the back of the fridge, even the water in the toilet tank. I swallowed everything. If I threw it up, I forced it back down. Everyone said I had lost my mind. But I just needed to know. I needed to know what I had eaten that had turned my developing child into a piece of dead flesh. I lifted my eyes and stared at Misty's triumphant face. And now, I finally understood. It was never about what I ate. It was about who I trusted. 2 Slowly, I raised my hand and folded down a second finger. Misty saw my movement and choked on her drink, then nudged Ryan with her elbow. "Look! Lena's reacting! You can thank me later!" Ryan just smiled and ruffled her hair, his voice dripping with indulgence. "Go easy on the drinks. You're always the one with the crazy ideas." He turned his head slightly, and his voice drifted over, quiet but clear. "If you can actually snap her back to her old self, I'll owe you one." My own voice was as flat and cold as a frozen lake. "Continue." Misty let out a drunken hiccup, her eyes glazed over, her smile widening into a manic grin. "Okay, one time, I swapped out Ryan's vitamin pills with Viagra!" The booth exploded. "Holy shit, Misty! You're savage!" "What kind of move is that?!" Ryan froze for a second, then gave a weary smile and tapped her forehead with his finger. "When was this? How do I not remember this?" Misty playfully punched his shoulder, slumping into his arms. "It was at the villa party three years ago! You were complaining to me, remember? You said Lena was pregnant and you were going crazy. I was just trying to help you out!" She winked, her voice rising. "Don't thank me too much for creating an opportunity for you!" Ryan's head snapped up. His eyes met mine, and the smile on his face froze. "You're drunk! Stop talking nonsense!" I lowered my head, my hand instinctively pressing against my lower stomach. The memories flooded back like a hemorrhage, thick and suffocating. Three years ago, in early autumn, I was pregnant with our second child. Overjoyed at this second chance, I agreed when Ryan wanted to throw a party at a rented villa. That day, balloons hanging from the ceiling popped, showering me in a cascade of pink petals. It was a girl. I cried with joy, a joy that was immediately followed by a wave of intense fear. I had learned my lesson. This time, I barely left my bed. I was meticulous about what I ate. I spent my nights online, ordering every adorable baby item I could find, dreaming of my daughter in her tiny dresses. Then Ryan had burst into the room. His eyes were bloodshot, his breathing ragged, his skin burning hot. I fought him, screaming, begging him to stop. "My daughter! There's a baby inside me!" In the chaos and the tearing pain, I thought I heard a tiny, faint cry, as if my daughter was saying goodbye. I was rushed to the hospital again. D&C, induced labor. The feeling of that small life being scraped from my womb. When I woke up, Ryan was sitting by my bed, peeling an apple. "Thank God it was just a girl," he said. "Don't worry. The doctor said there was no permanent damage. You can still have more." Without a moment's hesitation, I snatched the fruit knife from his hand and lunged, stabbing him with all my strength. Once, twice… I lost count, my arm moving mechanically until someone finally pulled me off him. My mother-in-law's slap came immediately after, so hard it perforated my eardrum. "It's a wife's duty to relieve her husband!" she shrieked. "You can always have another baby! What if my son's health was at risk?! It's better than him going out and finding another woman!" Everyone crowded around, telling me to let it go. I couldn't. All I could think about were the shipping notifications for all the baby things I had ordered. They were useless now. I was useless. I couldn't even protect my own child. Did my daughter think I was too weak to be her mother? Is that why she left me? But she was kind. She forgave me. A few weeks later, she came back to me, a third miracle inside my womb. This time, I took no chances. I had myself committed to a psychiatric ward, demanding to be placed in a fully padded, isolated room. It was stark white and terrifyingly quiet. But I wasn't afraid. I could feel her moving inside me. I knew she was still there, keeping me company. On the day she was born, I was delirious, unable to tell sunrise from sunset. Just before I lost consciousness completely, I heard her loud, healthy cry. I wept. All the pent-up anguish, all the terror, came pouring out. I named her Grace. Not because she was a gift from heaven. But because she was a gift from my kind daughter, to her useless, despairing mother. The greatest grace I would ever know. "Wow! Lena's smiling! She's actually smiling!" Misty's shrill voice yanked me from my memories. I subconsciously touched the corner of my mouth. It was true. It was turned upward. Just the thought of Grace could always soothe my fractured soul. Ryan let out a visible sigh of relief, his body sinking into the sofa cushions. Misty clapped her hands in excitement. "You're definitely going to lose, Lena! The best is yet to come!" 3 Obediently, I folded down my third finger. Misty started to speak again, but Ryan covered her mouth. "She's had too much to drink. I'm taking her home." The others eyed my expression and offered weak, placating smiles. But Misty wouldn't have it. She pried his hand away and yelled, "Nobody's leaving! I'm not done yet!" She pointed a finger at me, her voice sharp. "We're all here for Lena today! Haven't you noticed she hasn't moved an inch? I'd like to see who dares to be rude enough to leave!" Ryan turned to me, his brow furrowed, his tone laced with blame. "Haven't you had enough fun yet? Lena, how long do you expect everyone to coddle you?" I clutched my handbag tighter and lifted my head, truly looking at him for the first time all night. "It's not enough." Misty triumphantly pinched Ryan's behind. "See? Now sit down!" Ryan playfully tapped her nose, but his voice softened. "If she's in a bad mood, just let her be. You're too soft-hearted, always getting involved." Misty pouted. "Women are sensitive creatures, you know." The others looked around awkwardly, saying nothing. Misty deliberately lowered her voice and dropped her next bomb. "Okay, next one! I've worn a horror mask while driving on the freeway!" Ryan's face changed instantly. He instinctively shifted to shield Misty, his eyes darting toward me warily. "She was just playing around that time! It was an accident that she scared Grace." "And Grace was fine afterward, wasn't she? Don't you dare make a big deal out of it again!" Grace… was fine? The memory clawed its way to the surface. Our family was on a road trip with some of Ryan's friends. In the back seat, Grace was quietly drawing with her crayons. She never cried, never fussed. It was as if she understood my fragile state and never wanted to cause me trouble. Even when she had a fever and threw up, the first words out of her mouth were "I'm sorry." My Grace was a shy, gentle soul, kind to her very core. I smiled and asked her what she was drawing. She whispered that it was a secret, shyly turning her face to the window. Suddenly, all the color drained from her face. She let out the most bloodcurdling scream I have ever heard. I whipped my head around. In the passenger seat of the car driving parallel to us, a monstrous, grotesque face was pressed against the window, grinning at us. Ryan jerked the steering wheel. The car spun out of control, crashing into the guardrail. The world turned upside down. My head was bleeding, but I fought through the pain, stretching my hand desperately toward the back seat. My Grace, my tiny daughter, was crushed by the mangled seats, contorted into a small ball, looking so much like the embryo she once was in my womb. Her coloring book had fallen into a pool of her blood. On the page, drawn with clumsy, earnest crayon strokes, was the smiling face of a woman. Next to it, she had scrawled, "Mommy." She was only three years old. And she already knew how to draw her mommy. I smiled, but tears streamed down my face, a sound like a broken accordion wheezing from my throat. The drawing was eventually soaked through with blood and fell apart. And from that day on, my Grace never spoke again. She would hide in her closet, and the slightest sound would make her tremble violently. The doctor who had saved me from the brink so many times just looked at me with deep sorrow and finally said, "As long as she's alive, that's what matters." I never heard my daughter call me "Mommy" again. It was my punishment. A punishment for my stupidity, for never understanding what I had done so wrong that my own daughter couldn't bear to be near me. My fingernails dug into my palm, and blood trickled through my fingers. Misty's laughter was a sharp, grating sound. She was snuggled into Ryan's arms, poking his chest with her finger. "Come on, Ry-Ry, so I gave you all a little scare. Nobody got hurt in the end, right?" "Besides," she added, "to make it up to her, I even took Grace to a haunted house to help her get over her fears!" 4 I looked at my hand. Only my little finger was left standing. On the back of that finger, I had a tattoo of a little sun Grace had drawn. People say getting a tattoo on your finger is the most painful. That's not pain. Pain is watching your daughter leap from the roof of a hospital. That is a pain that guts you. The fear, the despair she must have felt. One day, Grace had disappeared. I had searched the entire city like a madwoman. When I finally dragged myself back to the hospital, defeated, I saw her. She was standing between Ryan and Misty, holding both of their hands. The three of them looked like a perfect family. I noticed how pale Grace's face was. I rushed over and pulled her into a tight hug, terrified I was about to lose her all over again. Misty bent down and stroked Grace's hair, smiling. "Lena, Grace is talking to you. See? My treatment plan worked." I numbly touched my deafened right ear, blaming myself for not hearing. Just then, Grace leaned in close to my left ear. I heard a tiny, fragile whisper. "Mommy, I love you." I looked up at Ryan, my face flooded with astonished joy. He told me Misty had taken her to an amusement park. He said that after their day out, she had started talking again. In that moment, an overwhelming wave of gratitude washed over me. I treated Misty like a sister, even buying her a multi-million-dollar penthouse downtown as a gift. I thought it was a new beginning for Grace. I started the paperwork to have her discharged from the hospital. The day before she was supposed to come home, Grace disappeared again. I was frantic. Then I got a call from the hospital. They said a young girl had fallen from the roof early that morning. They couldn't save her. I screamed into the phone, demanding to know why they were calling me. They said the girl's name was Grace. The girl who fell, the girl who died, was my daughter. My daughter. The doctor said extreme terror had caused a complete psychotic break, triggering hallucinations. I couldn't hear the rest of what he said. I collapsed to my knees, banging my head on the floor, repenting. I had been too greedy. The doctor had told me, "As long as she's alive, that's what matters." But I had dared to hope she would call me "Mommy" again. And that single word, "Mommy," was the last thing my daughter ever gave me. She was gone. I sat up straight and silently folded down my last finger. "Yay! Lena loses! Drink up, drink up!" Misty excitedly pushed a glass of hard liquor in front of me. I ignored it. I stood up and placed the handbag I had been gripping so tightly onto the table. I smiled as I pulled out a revolver. "Now, I'd like to play a different game." The room fell dead silent. I closed one eye, the barrel of the gun held steady, aimed directly at Misty's now ashen face. Ryan shot to his feet, his voice cracking with terror. "Lena! Are you insane?! Put the gun down!" I waved the gun slightly, my eyes empty of any warmth. "This was meant for me." "But now I see it's much better suited for a game." The barrel shifted slightly, now pointing right between Ryan's eyes. "Or perhaps..." I whispered, my voice a silken threat. "You'd like to play?" He froze, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He stopped breathing. My voice was a mere breath. "Choose. Him, or you?"
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