I was at the door of our nine-story brick apartment building, holding a big duffel bag in one hand and a pale blue bundle with my baby Michael in the other. I wasn’t tired because I hadn’t slept in the maternity unit for four days and nights. I was afraid like an animal, and my body was locked in a shell of ice.
The old lady was at fault. She looked like a ghost coming out of the heavy autumn fog, wearing a dark gray coat with ripped sleeves. She hissed directly in my face and held on to my arm with small but strong fingers. Her breath smelled like a strange, bitter plant.
“Don’t you dare go in there,” she added, staring straight at me. “Do you hear me, girl? Call your dad right away. Right now.”
I tried to pull my arm away, but I instinctively held Mikey closer to my chest to protect him. This woman was strange in some way, and it made me nervous. She wasn’t like the other grandmothers who sat on the benches at the door and talked about the neighbors. Her eyes were deep and almost black, and there was no sign of the foggy film of old age. They had an intense inner fire and a deep understanding of things that most people can’t understand. She wore a dark blue scarf that was almost violet and tied it low on her head, over her gray eyebrows, so it cast a shadow over her face. Her wrinkles were deep, like cracks in dry ground, but her grip was as strong as steel.
There were a lot of mystics and fortune-tellers in our suburban area on the edge of the city. They set up foldable tables near the train station and laid out their cards. They called out to people who walked by, offering to read their futures for $20 or $30. But they never scared new moms with scary, confusing messages.
“Please, let me go,” I begged, hoping to see a neighbor or even just one living person. But the courtyard was empty, as if everyone who lived there had just vanished. A cold October wind blew yellowed leaves across the wet asphalt, making little whirlpools. A crow cawed from the top of a nearby building in the distance. It was a long, scary sound that seemed to mean trouble was coming. At four-thirty in the afternoon, the sun was already behind a thick layer of clouds, making the world look dark and anxious.
Andrew, my husband, was supposed to meet me. He had promised two days before, when he went to the hospital with a lot of apples, juice, and a big bag of tiny baby clothes. He kissed me, looked at our sleeping son with so much love, and took pictures of him from every angle, sending them to his parents and friends. He said he would be there when I got out of the hospital. He said he would hire a big taxi, buy me roses, and decorate the flat with blue balloons.
But he called me this morning while I was happily packing my things. His voice was short and to the point. He said, “A last-minute business trip to Denver.” “A big contract, three million dollars on the line.” The client is hard to work with and wants to meet in person. My boss says I have to go today. “I have to go now,” he said. “I’m truly sorry, but work is work.” The mortgage has to be paid. The baby needs things.
I was so sad that I cried openly in the ward, hiding my face in the pillow so the other new mothers wouldn’t see. A nice nurse calmed me down and said it was because of postpartum hormones, but the bitterness stayed. What kind of work travel couldn’t wait for the birth of your first child? For months, I had pictured this day: the three of us traveling home, Andrew tenderly holding our boy. Instead, I was alone, exhausted, with a twenty-pound duffel bag and a nine-pound baby. A silent cab driver dropped me off and didn’t even help me with my bags.
“Be careful what you say, girl.” The elderly woman gripped on tighter, her fingers digging into the fabric of my coat. “Your father is still alive.” Can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying? He is still living. Call him. Now. Do you still have his old phone number? The one that is still on your phone? “
A cold like ice went through me, freezing my heart, lungs, and spirit. The world twisted on its axis.
Eight years ago, my father passed away. The 23rd of March, 2017. I remember the date better than my birthday. The doctors eventually indicated it was a massive heart attack. There was no chance. It happened so quickly and without warning that we couldn’t even get him to the hospital. He was sitting on the old couch in the living room, watching a football game. My mom was in the kitchen, and I was in my room getting ready for my college tests. We heard a groan and a loud, rattling sound. Mom was the first one to go in. It sounded like a nightmare as she screamed. I ran outside to see him. His face was gray, his lips were blue, and he was holding his chest. I called 911 with shaking hands and yelled out our address. It seemed like forever that we waited for fifteen minutes. The paramedics only shook their heads when they got there. “He’s gone.”
My father was always there for me, as a rock, a friend, and a protector. He worked as an engineer at the local plant and didn’t make much money, but he never complained. He taught me how to ride a bike, helped me with my math homework, and read me adventure stories every night before bed. My world went gray after he died. I couldn’t do anything because the grief was so strong. I was studying to be an elementary school teacher in college, but I almost dropped out. My mother broke. In just one month, she aged ten years and became a ghost of her former self. She still lived alone in our old two-bedroom apartment, eight years later, as a ghost tortured by memories.
“Are you making fun of me?” “My voice shook, and the hot tears made it hard to see. “My dad is dead.” It’s been eight years. Eight years have passed. What do you mean? Leave me alone, you insane woman. “It’s getting cold for my baby.”
Again, the old woman replied, “He is alive.” Her conviction was so powerful and terrible that I got chills all over. “Call his old number. The one you have in your phone. You didn’t wipe it, did you? Your heart wouldn’t let you. And don’t you dare go into that dreadful flat until you’ve talked to him. Please, daughter, I’m asking you. Please, for the love of God, don’t go inside.
Mikey moved around in his warm, silky blanket and let out a soft moan. His little nose was sniffing. He was definitely hungry, or maybe he could tell I was scared. I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t know if this vision was real or just a hallucination I was having because I wasn’t getting enough sleep after giving birth. The birth had been long and painful, with more than twelve hours of intense labor. I felt empty and drained, but this woman in front of me was definitely real. And the fear in her dark eyes was real, too.
She looked closely at the building, her eyes on the dark windows of our fifth-floor home, number 53. “There’s danger in your apartment.” “Life-threatening danger.” For you and your son. If you go in there now, you’ll wish you hadn’t until the end of your life. Get in touch with your dad. He is waiting for you to call. But you have to hurry. “There’s not much time.”
Then I felt a jolt, like a strong electric current, go through me. I remembered the number for Dad’s old cell phone. Mom wanted to cancel the line after the funeral, but I begged her not to. I paid the $15 a month for the basic plan myself. It was the final, thinnest thread that tied me to him. When I was at my lowest, I would sometimes call the number simply to hear the long, sad rings. I would cry silently as I told the nothingness about my life—about my first teaching job, meeting Andrew, our wedding, and my pregnancy. It was a covert way to keep him close.
Finally, the elderly woman released go of my arm and moved away. “I’ll wait over here,” she said, her voice softer but still forceful. “Go sit on the bench under the maple tree.” You’re tired. I can tell just by looking at you. And don’t be scared to call. “Everything will be fine.”
I don’t know why I did what a complete stranger told me to do. It could have been because I was tired, because of hormones, or because of some deep, unexplainable feeling. My grandma always told me to trust my gut and listen to what my heart was saying. Something deep inside me was screaming, not in words but with a raw, old instinct: Do what she says. Don’t go into that apartment. Call.
I carefully walked to the old green bench that was peeling paint under the bare maple tree. It was cold and wet from the rain that had just fallen. I sat down carefully and put Mikey on my lap. My fingers were numb and wouldn’t listen, so I took out my phone. My hands were shaking so much that the screen got blurry. I moved down to the letter “F.” There he was. “Dad.” The contact picture was a small square shot I took five years ago at his last birthday party. He was smiling widely at our cookout in the backyard. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.
It was plain insane. My dad was dead. I had stood beside his open casket, kissed his cold forehead goodbye, and thrown some dirt on his coffin. How could he still be alive?
But my hand moved to the screen and hit the green call button, as if it had a mind of its own.
I could hear my heart pounding against my ribs in my ears. I put the phone to my head and closed my eyes tightly. The rings started—long, dull sounds that faded into nothing. One ring. Two. Three. No one would answer, of course. The number was probably disconnected, or worse, given to someone else. I was about to hang up and cry because it was too much for me to handle when someone picked up on the sixth ring.
There was a click, a crackle of static, and then a voice.
“Hey Natalie? Honey? Are you that? “
The voice sounded scratchy, strained, and full of static, but there was no doubt that it was his. The phone fell from my weak fingers and landed on my lap next to Mikey’s bundle. I held on to the cold metal edge of the bench as the ground slipped away from me. The world spun in a dizzying circle, and darkness grew at the corners of my vision.
I took the phone back, my hands shaking, and placed it tight to my ear. “Dad?” I said, “I breathed,” and my voice was a broken, odd croak. “Is it really you, Dad?”
“It’s me, my love, it’s me.” That voice, the voice I hadn’t heard in eight long years, was shaking and full of tears that hadn’t fallen yet. “Oh my God.” At last. Thank you for calling, honey. I was worried that I might be too late. Natalie, please tell me quickly where you are right now. Are you at home? Are you in the flat?”
“On a bench,” I murmured, struggling to regain my breath. “I’m… I’m outside.” “With… with the kid. How, Dad? How can this be? You are dead. I attended to your funeral. “I saw you.”
He cut me off and said, “I’ll explain everything later, I promise.” His voice suddenly became strong and forceful. “There’s no time now.” You need to listen to me exactly. Don’t walk into that flat. No matter what. Please gather your son and your belongings, and leave the building. Go to a friend’s house, a library, or a coffee shop. Not at home. Can you hear me?”
I stared at the building that was our home. Andrew and I bought a two-bedroom condo two years ago and took out a 30-year mortgage. We painted the walls, put down the laminate flooring, and put together Mikey’s white crib with love and delight. What could be so dangerous in there?
“Dad’s voice was strained and frantic. “Please, Natalie, my dear.” “Please, just trust me on this. I know it doesn’t make sense, but do what I say. Get out of there right now. I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in 20 minutes, maybe 25 at the most. “Wait for me somewhere safe.”
My father, who I had been sad about for eight years, would be here in twenty minutes.
“But why can’t I go in?” “I begged, my brain spinning. “Please, Dad, say something.”
For a while, he remained quiet, and all I could hear were his heavy breathing and the sound of cars going past. Finally, he continued, “There’s an explosive device.” “One that was made at home. When you open the door to the apartment, it will go off. I don’t know what caused it, but I know it’s there. Natalie, they were going to kill you and the baby today.”
I couldn’t get enough air. A bomb. My apartment was where the explosion happened. Someone wanted to kill me. My baby and I. “Who?” “I was able to get the word out. “Who wants to kill us? “Why?”
“Your husband,” Dad said. And with just two statements, everything in my life fell apart. Hey Andrew. He made it all happen.
It felt like the world was swimming in front of me. Andrew was my husband, the father of my child, and the man I had loved and trusted without a doubt. I murmured, “You’re lying.” “That can’t be done.” Andrew would never… He loves me.
“Listen, Natalie,” Dad said again, his voice strong enough to break through my shock. He has been dating Jessica Riley, a woman from his company, for the past year and a half. He wants to marry her as soon as you leave. You signed the papers for a $300,000 life insurance policy in your name six months ago. Do you remember? He said that was a normal part of getting a mortgage.
I remembered. He said it was just a formality that he brought home some papers from the bank. I signed them without reading them since I believed him completely.
“Three hundred thousand,” Dad answered, “and the apartment would be his.” The insurance company would pay off the mortgage. He wouldn’t have to deal with a child he didn’t want. He could start a new life with his young girlfriend. What a great plan!
No. I shook my head and cried. No, no, no. It wasn’t real. He was unable to. He was quite excited about the baby, putting together the cot, deciding a name…
“Sweetheart, he was acting.” Dad’s voice got softer with sadness as he said, “An excellent one.” “I’m truly sorry, Natalie, but it’s the truth.” I have proof. Photos and videos. “When I see you, I’ll show you everything.”
My brain wouldn’t let me get it. My dad was still alive. My partner wants to kill me. We had a bomb in our house. “But… how do you know about the bomb?” I murmured, clutching on to the one thing I could grasp.
He took a moment before he said, “Because I’ve been working for a special federal task force for the past eight years.” “I had to pretend to die to keep you and your mom safe.” I was a witness in a huge case of corruption against high-ranking local authorities. They told me they would protect me as a witness, but that meant I had to leave. Die in a way that is official. It was the only way to keep you both safe.
I felt like I was in a violent movie. Safeguarding witnesses. It was like I was watching a death that wasn’t real. I inquired in a quiet voice, “Who was in the coffin?”
The dead man was a man I didn’t know who was about the same age and body type as me. We weren’t able to find his family. They… It was hard to identify who they were. We couldn’t tell your mom because it would have put her in danger. She didn’t need to know much. And we couldn’t tell you either for the same reason. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through, my love.”
Oh my God, Mom. She had been mourning a living guy for eight years, and a death that never happened devastated her life. And the woman who stopped me? I said, looking across at the strange fortune-teller who was still standing by the edge of the courtyard and watching me. “Who is she?”
“My coworker,” Dad said. “Agent Mariah Evans.” I told her to watch your building today, just in case. My source said today was the day.
The person in question was a phony fortune teller. A spy. Everyone was playing a role.
“Put Mariah on the phone,” Dad ordered. “She’ll take you to a safe place.”
I got up, grabbed the duffel bag, and slowly walked up to the woman with my phone in my hand. I said in a gentle voice, “It’s for you.”
She answered the phone and spoke in a low, clipped, businesslike voice. I stood next to her with my son and glanced at our apartment building. The windows on the fifth story were black. There was a bomb behind those windows, in the cozy home where Andrew and I had spent so many happy nights. The bomb was meant to murder me and my son. And my husband, the man who promised to love and care for me, went on a “business trip” so he could have a reason to be away.
How could he do that? How could you sleep next to someone, kiss them, talk about your future child, and then plan to kill them?
Mariah returned the phone. “Your dad wants you to go to the ‘Daisy Cafe’ on the next street,” she said, sounding like she was talking from a normal place again. “It’s a five-minute walk.” I’ll go with you. You can wait for him there. I have already called the police and the bomb squad. They’re going out of the building immediately. “Come on, dear.”
She grabbed up my heavy bags, and we walked away from my house. My house. My life. It was all a lie.
The Daisy Cafe was a small, welcoming place with yellow curtains and the fragrance of coffee and cakes. It was a little, normal, peaceful place, far away from bombs and betrayal. Mariah led me to a corner table and helped me get used to Mikey.
She looked at her phone after a few minutes and said, “The bomb squad is here.” “They’re getting the people out of there.” Your dad will be here in five minutes.
Five minutes. I was going to see my dad in person after thinking he was dead for eight years.
I questioned Mariah, “Do you know the whole thing?”
Mariah nodded. “I do.” We’ve been working together for six years now. Your dad is one of the best investigators in the Organized Crime unit. Eight years ago, he observed a bribery case that was a tremendous mess. He had no other alternative except to pretend to be dead. Since then, he has been watching you and your mother from a distance. When you got married, he ran a full background check on Andrew. He looked neat. But six months ago, your dad observed some unusual things. He found out about the secret lover and the debts that were piling up from gambling online. He started to dig deeper. Someone in the criminal underworld told him two weeks ago that Andrew had hired a specialist, a former expert in demolitions, to “fix his wife problem.”
A couple of days ago. Andrew came to the hospital that day, brought me fruit, kissed me, and said he missed me. He went home and let the man who was going to kill us in.
Someone wearing a dark jacket and slacks walked into the cafe. He was tall and had broad shoulders. His hair was short. He looked different—thinner, older, and with new lines around his eyes—but I knew him right away. It was my dad.
We saw each other from across the room. His face showed how he felt. He came up to me rapidly, almost rushing. “Natalie,” he whispered, his voice shaking.
He clutched me tightly and frantically in his arms, which took my breath away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly into my hair as his shoulders heaved with silent tears. “I’m sorry for everything, my dear. For the pain, the tears, and these eight terrible years. There was nothing else I could do. “I had to keep you safe.”
I held him back with my free arm while I cried. We stood there for a long time, an island of strong feelings in a quiet cafe. He was still alive. For real. Hot.
Finally, he moved back and looked at the infant in my arms who was asleep. “My grandson,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Can I?” “”
I carefully gave Mikey to him. Dad cradled the infant like he was the most precious thing in the world. He looked at the baby’s tiny, beautiful face. There were tears on his cheeks. The big federal agent who had feigned to die was crying like a baby.
Mariah whispered from the window, “The bomb has been disarmed, Frank.” It was real; the whole floor would have been affected. Right now, Andrew Carter is being apprehended at the Denver airport.
That’s it. They were arresting my spouse. In just one day, everything I had worked for over the past two years fell apart.
Dad sat down next to me and gave me Mikey back. He held my hand and said, “I know this is hard.” “But you will get over this, Natalie.” You are strong, much like your mom. “You’ll get through these hard times and come out even stronger.”
“Mom,” I whispered softly. “When will she know that you’re still alive?”
He let out a heavy, agonizing sigh. “Tonight. After you finish your statement, I’ll meet with her. I’m going to see her. I’ll go over everything.” I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me, but I have to try.
“I know she will,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure but really wanted to. “She loves you.” She never stopped.
For the next three weeks, it was like a dream. I moved back into my mother’s apartment, where I had lived as a child. My new life was a strange mix of the past and the present. Dad moved in with us and slept on a cot in my old room. The small space was suddenly full of the ghosts of who we used to be and the strangers we had become.
The reunion with my mother was a storm of shock, sadness, and eight years of anger that had been building up. It slowly turned into forgiveness, but it was hard and painful. I watched as they navigated the fragile terrain of their rediscovered love, speaking to each other with the polite distance of strangers and slowly learning how to be husband and wife again. Dad loved Mikey so much that he changed his diapers and rocked him to sleep for hours. It was like a grandfather making up for ten years of missed time.
The trial went quickly. Andrew looked like a ghost, a man with no life who couldn’t look me in the eye. He said he was guilty. There was a lot of proof, like financial transfers to the hitman and text exchanges between him and his girlfriend Jessica about their future after I was “gone.” The day before my discharge, she wrote him, “Soon this will all be over, and we can finally be together, my love.” I can’t wait. I already know what dress I want to wear to the wedding.
She had been planning her wedding to be on the same day as my funeral.
Andrew got fifteen years in the most secure jail. Jessica, who aided, got eight. I sold the house to pay off the mortgage and put the remainder of the money in a trust for Michael’s future.
In December, one night when it was snowing, I was rocking a fussy Mikey in the living room as my parents talked quietly in the kitchen.
“I never stopped loving you, Laura,” my father said with a lot of feeling in his voice. “Not even for a second.” I took all those risks and did everything I could to keep you and Natalie safe.
There was a long pause, and then my mother said softly, “I understand, Frank.” It just needs some time. Eight years is a long time to be unhappy over a man who was still alive.
I heard my mom cry quietly and my dad whisper to her to make her feel better. They were getting better, and so were we all.
I looked down at my son, who had finally fallen asleep with his little fingers wrapped around mine. The little family I had tried to make with Andrew was a lie, a carefully planned illusion that had shattered into a million pieces. But from the ashes, my first family was coming back to life.
Things didn’t go as planned. It was a mess, full of problems, and hurt by betrayal. But it was also true. My dad was still alive. My son was fine. My mom was learning how to smile again. When I looked out the window at the pure, white snow covering everything, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: a calm, weak, but lasting sense of peace. The storm was over. We had made it.
