Betrayal’s Cost: Love and Loss

Watching the people I loved most being tormented like this, I hated myself all over again for jumping to my death. If I could’ve turned back time, I would have fought harder.

The commotion grew so loud that someone from another floor called the police and an ambulance, finally ending the nightmare. The flashing lights brought a strange relief.

Carter went to the hospital. My mom hadn’t woken up yet. My dad slapped him twice: "What happened to my daughter? Tell me the truth!" The sound echoed in the sterile hallway.

Carter cried bitterly: "Dad, Evelyn just couldn’t think straight and jumped. I never thought it would come to this." He sobbed into his hands, but there were no tears.

My dad kept scolding him, saying his daughter would never be so foolish as to jump—she wasn’t that kind of person. His voice was raw, full of disbelief.

I followed to the hospital, crying as I listened. I really wasn’t the kind of person to end it all over a setback, so why was I so impulsive that day? The question haunted me, twisting in my chest.

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My parents didn’t believe I’d killed myself and went to the police. They demanded answers, refusing to accept the story at face value.

The officers said they’d found a large amount of medication for bipolar disorder and depression in my bedroom and bathroom. I never had those illnesses, nor had I ever taken those drugs. My medical records were clean, but the bottles were there, undeniable.

I didn’t know what was going on. They weren’t mine, so someone must have planted them. The thought chilled me.

Besides me, only the nanny, housekeeper, and Carter lived at home. The list of suspects was painfully short.

The day I jumped, the nanny was out buying groceries, the housekeeper was on leave, and Noah was with Carter at the children’s museum. Only I was at home. The timeline was tight, too convenient.

I’d seen a video Carter posted on Instagram. In it, Marissa was holding a toy pony, asking my three-year-old son Noah, "What’s this called?"

Noah thought she meant the horse, so with his childish lisp, he said, "Ma, ma."

Marissa stroked his head with one hand, her other hand on her belly, smiling. "Good boy. In the future, you must love and look after your little brother." Her voice was syrupy sweet, but her eyes were hard.

The video was only ten seconds, but I trembled all over watching it. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my phone.

That wasn’t all. She soon sent me two more texts: Spending your money, sleeping with your husband, beating your son—I’ve already checked off two, only one left, soon! From now on, everything your son has will belong to mine. Your son is only fit to carry shoes for mine! Today I’m going to see my son’s room.

She deleted the messages almost immediately, but not before I saw them. My blood boiled.

I knew it must have been Marissa using Carter’s phone to send me those messages. Thinking of how Carter had just sworn yesterday that the people sending me anonymous photos just wanted to break up our family, and that I must believe him—I remembered his teary eyes and our years together. Even though it wasn’t the first time I’d received anonymous photos of him and Marissa, I still chose to believe him. My trust—my biggest mistake.