One Missed Call Killed Our Baby

Chapter 8

"Come on, Emily! I know you still love me. You can't really leave me, can you?"

Unbelievable.

His son just died, because of him, and he still thinks this marriage is salvageable?

The audacity. Honestly, I almost admire the nerve. Almost.

"It's over, Andrew," I said, voice like ice.

"I already signed the divorce papers. They're in the drawer in the living room. Sign them whenever you find the time."

Then I picked up my suitcase, walked past him without looking back, and left.

There was nothing left to say. Not anymore.

I went straight to the train station, the place where Matthew had his accident.

I found a small rental nearby. Simple, quiet.

I'm not the kind of person who believes in ghosts or spirits, but... something inside me says Matthew's still here. Still close.

And if there's even the slightest chance he is, I want him to know he's not alone.

I don't want him to be scared.

For thirty years, my world revolved around Andrew.

Now, he's just part of my past.

Matthew is my focus now, even if he's gone.

He's still with me, buried deep inside the hollow place where my heart used to be.

I walked to the exact spot at the station. Every step felt like a dagger twisting deeper into my chest.

I tried to imagine what Matthew felt that day, what was going through his little head.

He must've been happy at first.

Sitting in his dad's car. Just being with Andrew was a big deal to him.

It was all he ever wanted.

Maybe he was excited, ready to tell a story from kindergarten, or share the snacks he'd brought. Just... something. Anything to make his dad smile.

Then the phone rang.

And everything changed.

Andrew got out. Left him there.

Alone.

What did Matthew think?

Did he think he did something wrong?

Knowing my baby, he probably obeyed without question, climbed out of the car and stood quietly by the curb, just waiting.

Watching. Hoping.

So many strangers rushing past, but none of them his.

Did he think Andrew was coming back?

Did he wait there the whole time, telling himself it was fine? That maybe Dad was just parking?

Was he scared?

Was he crying?

God, did he call for me?

I don't know what happened in those final minutes.

No one really told me. I didn't ask the police for details, didn't dig for answers.

Because honestly, what good would it have done?

He was already gone.

My son was cold when I got there. Lifeless.

And I could do nothing but mourn.

I sank to my knees near the platform and whispered into the wind.

"Matthew, my sweet boy... I'm so sorry I wasn't there. If I could've taken your pain, I would've. All of it."

During the day, his absence felt like a crushing weight on my chest.

At night, I sat by the window of that little rental, staring at the exact spot where he took his last breath.

People say the dead linger at night, that souls hang around the places they loved or where their stories ended.

I want to believe that.

"Matthew," I whispered into the darkness, "can you see me?"

"Mommy misses you so much."

"I don't care if you scare me."

"Just... talk to me again."