Chapter 201

LILY POV

I wished I could say that after Faith’s death I rose again. That the pain transformed me into a better version of myself. That losing my daughter gave me a purpose, a strength I never knew I had. That I rose from the ashes like a phoenix — stronger, wiser, ready to honor her memory by living a full life. I wished I could say that. Because it would be beautiful. Because it’s the kind of story people like to hear. The story of overcoming, of redemption, of a mother who turned her pain into light.

But the truth… ah, the truth is much uglier.

The truth was that after Faith was gone, life lost all meaning. Everything turned gray. The days were long, empty, heavy as lead. I breathed, ate, slept — but none of it was living. It was just existing. Surviving. I felt like a ghost wandering through the house that had once been mine, touching the walls, staring at the empty room where the crib was never used, clutching the pendant with her name against my chest as if I could bring her back by sheer force of will.

I didn’t rise. I dragged myself.

And that’s how I started going out every night.

After Samantha and Doug went to sleep — I would wait for the sound of their footsteps in the hallway, the click of their bedroom doors closing, the silence that settled over the house like a heavy cloak — I would get up. I’d throw on whatever I found in the closet, put on a loose coat to hide the still-fresh C-section scar, and slip out the back door. The cold Chicago night air hit me like a slap, but I needed it. I needed to feel something. Anything other than the emptiness.

I went into random bars. Dark places, full of smoke, filled with people who didn’t know me, with music loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I drank. I drank until the world blurred, until the pain turned into a distant buzz, until I could smile without it feeling like a lie. I didn’t want company. I didn’t want conversation. I just wanted to forget. Forget that Faith had existed. Forget that Samuel had existed. Forget that I still existed.

One of those nights, I walked into a small bar downtown — the kind with dim red lights and an improvised stage at the back. It was open mic night. The host was calling people up, one after another. I was at the bar, third glass of whiskey in hand, my body warm, my mind foggy. And then I thought of him. Of Samuel. Of the Gallery Cabaret. Of the night I sang with him, when for a moment I believed the world could be ours.

If he could sing, why couldn’t I?

I stood up before I could think better of it. I walked to the stage on shaky legs, heart pounding. The host looked surprised but handed me the microphone. I held the cold mic between my fingers, the weak spotlights hitting my face. The bar was half full, people chatting, glasses clinking. No one was paying attention.

I closed my eyes. And I began to sing.

My voice came out hoarse at first, broken by pain, by the alcohol, by longing. But as the words flowed, something inside me opened.

"Would you know my name

If I saw you in Heaven?

Would it be the same

If I saw you in Heaven?

I must be strong

And carry on

'Cause I know I don't belong

Here in Heaven

Would you hold my hand

If I saw you in Heaven?

Would you help me stand

If I saw you in Heaven?

I'll find my way

Through night and day

'Cause I know I just can't stay

Here in Heaven"

I sang about loss. About love that hurts. About a daughter I never got to hold. About a man who destroyed me and left me behind. I sang with all my soul, with all the pain I had kept inside for months. My voice trembled, but it didn’t stop. Tears ran down my face, but I didn’t wipe them away.

"Time can bring you down

Time can bend your knees

Time can break your heart

Have you begging please

Begging please

Beyond the door

There's peace, I'm sure

And I know there'll be no more

Tears in Heaven"

And the people stopped talking.

One by one, they turned toward the stage. The bar fell silent. Someone started clapping to the rhythm. Then another. Then the whole bar. They sang along on the chorus, as if they understood the pain, as if they felt it too. I opened my eyes and saw emotional faces, watery eyes, people who had never seen me before looking at me as if I had touched something inside them.

"Would you know my name

If I saw you in Heaven?

Would you be the same

If I saw you in Heaven?

I must be strong

And carry on

'Cause I know I don't belong

Here in Heaven"

They asked for an encore.

I sang another. And then another. I sang until I lost track of time. Until my throat hurt. Until my voice grew hoarse. Until the emptiness I felt from losing Faith, from Samuel leaving, from everything that was killing me inside, eased just a little. Just a little. But it was enough for me to feel something in my heart. Something that felt alive.

When the bar announced closing time, I stepped down from the stage on shaky legs, body sweaty, mind still spinning. People congratulated me, patted me on the back, told me I had an incredible voice. I smiled, thanked them, but inside I just wanted to run. The sun was almost rising. I knew Doug and Samantha would wake up soon and bombard me with questions. I needed to get home before then.

I left the bar a little unsteady, the cold early morning air hitting my face like a welcome slap. I was almost running when a man stopped me. Forty-something, worn leather jacket, stubble, attentive eyes.

“Hey, wait a second,” he said, his voice rough but kind.

I stopped, nervous, clutching my coat tighter.

“I need to go.”

He raised his hands, showing he meant no harm.

“I just wanted to talk to you. You might remember me. My name is Rick…”

I frowned. The name sounded familiar.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any Rick.”

He smiled slightly.

“I saw you before. Months ago, at the Gallery Cabaret. You sang with a guy. You two were incredible. I tried to talk to you on the way out, but you disappeared.”

I remembered. Rick. The talent scout. The man who stopped Samuel and me that night, when everything still seemed possible. It felt like it had happened years ago. In another life. In a life where I still believed in happy endings.

“Look, Rick… you seem like a nice guy, but I don’t want any of that. I need to get home.”

He tilted his head.

“Any of what?”

“Being a singer,” I answered, my voice harsher than I intended. “I don’t want that.”

Rick smiled, a sad, almost understanding smile.

“Then I have some bad news for you, kid. You may not want it, but you are a singer. And a damn good one. You have incredible talent. I saw it that night at the Gallery. And I saw it again tonight. You don’t just sing with your voice. You sing with your soul. And that’s rare.”

I shook my head, tears threatening to fall again.

“Please… enough. I really need to go.”

He held out a simple business card, black with white lettering.

“At least take the card. Think of it as an escape route. When you’re ready… call me.”

I reluctantly took the card. I slipped it into my coat pocket and ran home, heart racing, mind spinning.

I arrived before sunrise. I slipped inside quietly, tiptoed up the stairs, and threw myself into bed. I pulled the comforter over my body, pretending to be asleep. Minutes later, the bedroom door opened.

“Lily?” Samantha called softly.

I didn’t answer. I stayed still, breathing slowly. Samantha lingered for a few seconds, then closed the door carefully.

I pulled the comforter off, took Rick’s card out of my pocket, and stared at it, the name and number glowing in the dim light of the room.

An escape route.

I closed my eyes, pressing the card against my chest.

Maybe that was what I needed.

Maybe it was the only way not to lose myself completely.