Chapter Nine: A Mother's Guilt
Margret could not stop thinking about Lucia.
Every moment she spent awake, her mind returned to her daughter's soft face, her small hands, the innocence in her eyes. She felt the weight of responsibility crushing her chest. The words David had thrown at her echoed endlessly: "You brought this into my house. You're the one who did this. You're the one who brought shame."
They were lies, but the impact was real. Margret's mind twisted them into guilt anyway, and she felt the sting of accusation burn deep, as if her very existence had failed Lucia.
She wandered the house in silence, tracing the familiar furniture with her fingers, as if looking for answers in the grain of the wood. She imagined a life where this hadn't happened—a life where David had been faithful, where whispers had never followed her, where her child had grown up in a home full of warmth, not fear.
But reality was merciless.
Every glance at Lucia reminded Margret that the child was growing up in a world poisoned by lies. Every laugh that Lucia forced to hide her discomfort, every hesitant step she took around her father, pressed into Margret's heart like a physical weight. She could not shield her from David, not fully. She could not undo the accusation. She could only try, and try, and try again.
Guilt became a constant companion. It followed her to the kitchen, to the living room, to Lucia's bedroom at night. She saw it in the way she flinched when David's shadow moved across the hallway, in the way she hesitated to speak, as if every word might trigger his wrath.
Margret wondered constantly if she was enough. If she was strong enough to protect her daughter. If she had failed Lucia by marrying a man who could become a predator in the guise of a father and provider.
Some nights, she would sit in the dark, Lucia asleep in the next room, and let the tears come. They were silent, private, impossible to explain. She did not cry because she was weak. She cried because she had to. Because if she did not, the guilt would suffocate her completely.
She imagined the future—the years ahead, shaped by David's anger, by the rumors that would follow them, by the disease that now shadowed their lives. She imagined the shame that might reach Lucia at school, among friends, in the eyes of strangers. Every possibility brought a new wave of fear, but also a sharper pang of guilt.
Margret blamed herself for the child's suffering. For the stolen innocence. For the constant fear that had become part of their everyday life. She could not forgive David for his cruelty, his lies—but she carried the weight as if it were hers alone.
And yet, even in that guilt, a small spark remained. A spark of determination.
She could not undo the past. She could not erase what David had done or said. But she could act. She could fight for her daughter. She could make a plan. She could survive.
The guilt, she realized, was not a sign of weakness—it was the fuel she needed to protect Lucia. Every pang of shame reminded her of what was at stake. Every night of silent crying reminded her that her daughter's safety, her life, depended entirely on her actions.
Margret began to take stock quietly, deliberately. She considered what they could take if they had to leave, how they could disappear, where they could go. Every option had risks, but inaction was no longer acceptable. Every moment spent doubting herself was a moment David could use to harm them.
In those hours, Margret resolved something fiercely: she would carry the guilt, yes, but she would not let it paralyze her. She would channel it into survival. Into protection. Into escape, if necessary.
Lucia's future depended on it.
And that was the only thought that mattered.