James drove straight to the hotel. He was worried. The roads of Texas stretched before him, but he barely noticed the traffic or the red lights. All he could think about was Emily. Why was she in a hotel? Why didn’t she stay with her parents or friends? Why had she disappeared without a word? The diary told part of the truth, but James felt there was more. At last, he pulled up at the hotel she had mentioned. He rushed to the reception desk and asked for her room number. The receptionist gave it, and he ran to the elevator, his heart pressing against his chest with fear. When he reached her door, he knocked. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still silence. Something was wrong. He turned the handle. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Slowly, he pushed it open, and the sight before him almost froze his blood. Emily was lying on the floor, motionless. Around her were bottles—empty bottles of alcohol, scattered everywhere. The air was filled with the sour smell of drink. ...
James could not rest after reading the diary Emily left behind. The words kept ringing in his head like a bell that refused to stop. She had not cheated. She had not betrayed him in the way he first thought. Instead, something worse had happened to her. Another man had forced himself on her when he was not around. That was how the baby came. At first, James could not accept it. He would pace the house, holding the diary in his hand, shaking his head as if trying to reject what he had read. He told himself it was too hard to believe. How could this have happened in his own house? How could Emily keep such a painful secret from him for so long? And how could he ever accept that another man’s blood was in the child they had both prayed for? The more he thought about it, the more his chest was filled with pain. He felt betrayed, but not by Emily’s choice—betrayed by life itself. What made it worse was that she had carried the burden alone. She never told him. She stayed silent while he acc...