My name is Allison Kennedy, and I thought I understood loss—until my husband died in a car crash four years ago. My world shattered. Grief clung to every corner of my home, but I had Chloe, my six-year-old daughter, who needed me. So I kept moving forward. I juggled freelance design work in Boston, parenthood, and heartbreak, holding it all together with sheer will.
Then I met Brent Kennedy.
It started in a quiet coffee shop one morning. Brent had just moved from Chicago, calm, steady, and with a smile that felt like a warm promise. Our chance meetings became regular, then dates. Six months later, he met Chloe. She was shy, but he knelt to her level, listened to her stories, and seemed patient, kind, and gentle.
A year later, we married in a small garden ceremony. Chloe carried flowers. Brent held my hand like I was his safe place. I thought we had rebuilt our family.
Life seemed perfect at first. Brent supported Chloe, managed finances, encouraged my work. But slowly, changes crept in. Minor snapping, harsh words over small mistakes. “She needs discipline,” he’d say. Chloe whispered she was scared. I ignored it. My first mistake.
When my career required travel, Brent said he’d handle Chloe. His voice was patient on the phone. “We’re fine. Don’t worry.” But each time I returned, Chloe was quieter, withdrawn. Her laughter faded.
One September evening, I noticed she wore long sleeves despite the heat. A faint bruise peeked through. “Did you fall?” She nodded. “At school.” I needed to believe her.
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