chapter 6
In the new city, I stayed in a hostel.
I shared a room with two travelers who spoke only broken English, but they were kind. One offered me crackers. The other handed me orange juice. Later that night, the girl from Finland braided my hair while we sat by the window watching a storm gather in the distance.
She didn’t ask my name.
I didn’t offer it.
Out of habit, I checked the news that night.
I typed Jake’s full name into the search bar.
The first headline made my breath catch.
Local Entrepreneur Calls Off Wedding After Bride Vanishes
There was a photo of Jake standing at the altar, jaw tense, expression cold. The article claimed I had suffered a mental breakdown, disappeared without explanation, and that his family was deeply concerned for my safety.
Concerned.
That almost made me laugh.
Jake had told the press he forgave me and only hoped I was getting the help I needed.
Ethan’s name wasn’t mentioned once.
Of course it wasn’t.
They were already rewriting the story, turning me into a fragile woman who had run away from happiness.
Maybe that was what they wanted the world to believe.
Maybe they even believed it themselves.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I laughed.
Out loud.
In a room full of strangers.
Because the truth was so far from that headline, it might as well have been fiction.
That week, I contacted a therapist through a charity network.
I told her bits and pieces.
She said I had symptoms of trauma. Maybe even PTSD.
She asked me whether I felt safe.
I didn’t answer.
She asked if I wanted to report what had happened.
I didn’t.
This wasn’t about revenge.
It wasn’t even about justice.
It was about survival.
I wanted to live.
I wanted to raise this baby in peace.
I wanted to wake up without fear clinging to my skin.
But when I closed my eyes at night, I still saw Ethan standing in the hallway. Hand on my wrist. Voice low as he whispered my name like it was both a promise and a prayer.
And eventually, I had to admit the truth.
I didn’t fear him only because he had lied to me.
I feared him because some part of me had wanted to believe him.
Weeks passed.
The hostel became a short-term rental. Then a tiny apartment near a park where mothers pushed strollers in the morning sunlight.
I started volunteering at a local library, shelving books and helping children read during quiet weekdays.
No one knew who I was.
No one asked.
It was the safest I had felt in months.
I told people I had moved from another state. That I was pregnant by choice. That I worked remotely in copywriting.
The lies came easier now.
I wore them like armor.
One evening, while closing the library, I found a little girl crying in a corner. She had gotten separated from her mother.
I knelt beside her, wiped her tears, and promised her everything would be okay.
When her mother finally came running in and pulled her into a hug, she looked at me strangely.
“You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” she said.
That night, I cried for the first time in weeks.
Not because I was scared.
But because, for once, someone saw something in me that wasn’t damaged.
At my next appointment, the doctor smiled and said, “It’s a girl.”
I placed a hand over my stomach and listened to the heartbeat, steady and strong.
I named her in that moment.
Lila.
Lila May.
A name with no history.
No pain.
Just light.
But peace never lasted.
A few days later, a package arrived at my apartment.
No return address.
I almost threw it away unopened.
Instead, I tore it open.
Inside was an ultrasound photo.
Not mine.
At the bottom, printed in clean medical type, was my old name.
Rachel Lin.
A sticky note was attached.
Are you still sure it’s yours?
My hands shook so hard I had to sit down on the floor.
It meant someone had accessed my records.
Or forged them.
Either way, it was a threat.