Have you ever imagined yourself standing in my place, Inspector?
My first husband, the biological father of Anastasia and Drizella, fell on the battlefield. He left me, our children, and the family we had spent so long building and dreaming of behind. Do you know what it felt like that night? I cried while clutching his jacket and uniform, desperately trying to find whatever trace of his scent remained. Kneeling on the cold tiles, I reread the old letters he had once sent me. Words like, "Don't worry, I'll come back," or "I'll be home soon," which can now only exist as memories.
My husband was the kindest man I had ever known. He was gentle. Attentive. I loved him deeply, and I was certain the love he held for me was just as strong.
I remember the first time I met him. A bright morning. A park. A fountain. The scent of dew and wet grass. Every detail is still perfectly preserved in my mind, like a film reel I can replay whenever I want. He was there, sitting alone on a park bench, sweating lightly. A half-empty bottle of mineral water rested in his hand, as if he had just finished exercising. Three or four white doves pecked at crumbs near his feet, leftovers dropped by other park visitors.
It was a beautiful scene. I wanted to capture it.
At the time, I was pursuing painting seriously. I carried my pencil and sketchbook everywhere. That morning, I took them out of my bag and sat not far from him, slowly sketching rough lines, little by little. I was grateful he stayed seated for a long time. Grateful he did not move.
Because the truth was, he already knew.
Several times, he glanced at me. Several times, our eyes met. And several times, he smiled.
I thought he would be angry. I assumed he would scold me for sketching him without permission, call me rude, or something similar. But no. Instead, he approached me with light steps. His smile was as warm as the sun, and although I felt embarrassed, I could not bring myself to look away from him.
"Hi," he greeted me. His voice was firm and clear, perfectly matching his tall, well-built figure.
Since childhood, I had never believed in love at first sight. To me, love grows slowly, like a tree. It begins as a small seed, watered and nurtured every day, passing through important moments, creating beautiful memories in spring, excitement in summer, warmth in autumn, and intimacy in winter. It takes time for love to grow into something strong and enduring.
I did not believe in love at first sight.
But when I looked deep into his eyes, I felt the first seeds of love begin to sprout.
"Hi."
"Nice weather for drawing, isn't it?" I remember holding back my laughter at his small talk.
I knew he wanted to see my drawing. He kept glancing sideways, trying to peek at the sketchbook I held upright. I had never shown my work to strangers before, only to close friends and family. To be honest, I was nervous. Especially since what I had drawn was his face, his figure.
Was it good?
Would he be angry if the image on the white paper did not match his expectations?
What would he say?
"I'm sorry," I told him. Sorry for drawing him without permission. Sorry if my work was not good enough.
I handed him the sketchbook, the page still open. I closed my eyes tightly, clutching my pencil and eraser, turning my head away. I was ready for criticism, ready to endure embarrassment if he scolded me in the middle of that park.
But I was not ready for this.
"I like it," he said. "I really like it."
I was not prepared for such praise. I was not prepared for his smile, nor for the attentive gaze he gave me. Suddenly, I felt my face grow hot, as if the sun were directly overhead. Was I blushing? Perhaps. I never knew for sure. All I knew was that my heart was pounding wildly.
"Thank you," I said softly.
He praised my drawing. He said I was talented, that my shading was smooth, that the firm lines shaping his face were perfect. He looked genuinely pleased as he examined the sketch more closely.
His name was Francis Philipe, a man from a family deeply rooted in the military. He had been trained in discipline since childhood by his grandfather and father, and he dreamed of becoming a great commander someday. He might have sounded like a stern man at first, but after talking for a while, I discovered sides of him that were unexpectedly charming.
Can you imagine it? A tall, broad-shouldered man who loved ice cream and sweet pastries. Yes, he truly did. He said the food at the military camp was awful, bland, bitter, or overly salty. So whenever he had leave and was in the city, he would visit ice cream parlors and bakeries, buying anything sweet he could find. I found it adorable.
I also remember that we had lunch together that day. I recommended the place. We ate at a small French restaurant not far from the park, both ordering Soupe à l'Oignon, followed by Crème Brûlée for dessert. We talked about many things. He asked why I liked drawing, how long I had been doing it. I asked about his hobbies beyond exercise. One thing led to another, and within a few months, we decided to get married.
Our wedding was held at an old church in the heart of the city, attended by family, relatives, and close friends. It was a day I would never forget. Like a princess, I wore a white gown with a full, flowing skirt, my hair styled perfectly, my makeup flawless. I was beautiful, perfectly matched with the man I loved most.
He wore a white suit, as white as snow, with a red rose pinned to his chest. Polished black shoes, neatly styled hair, that familiar gentle smile, his nose, his brows, and his eyes… the same attentive gaze he had given me the day we first met. A gaze filled with love.
"Until death do us part," we vowed before God, standing at the altar. We swore to remain together, united as husband and wife, never to be separated.
Yes. Until death do us part.
A death I never expected to come so soon.
Do you know how I felt then, Inspector?
Left behind with two toddlers. Without warning. Without preparation. My family, my dream world, my home… what would become of them without my husband?
I am certain you would never understand.
When his body was returned, with two bullet holes piercing his chest. When he lay inside a white coffin filled with flowers, wearing the same white suit he had worn at our wedding. The suit that had witnessed our vows, now buried with the man I loved.
I collapsed. Completely.
It felt as though the entire world had abandoned me.
All that remained were me and my two daughters, Anastasia and Drizella. Our precious children.
I raised them with love. With the money I earned and my husband's pension, I bought them everything they needed and wanted. Toys. Dolls. Every Sunday, I cooked and baked sweet treats for them. I bought them ice cream after school. Until they grew into beautiful teenage girls, and their needs began to grow as well.
That was when I met him.
My second husband.
The father of a girl named Ella.
That man… may have been the worst husband I ever married.
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