Page 174 of The Professor's Wife

He called me perfect because I was the perfect victim. The perfect being he could mold and frighten enough to control.

“Don’t coddle him, Daisy,” Oliver had said many times over the course of our marriage, like he knew better. Like he always knew better.

And now Rowe was dead.

Because of that bloody school. Because of that shuttle bus. Because of Oliver.

Because of me.

It was my fault more than anything.

I told Rowe that in every letter I wrote to him. Letters I tucked under his bed as I sobbed and begged for him to come back to me.

I rose to my feet slowly, legs trembling, and crossed the room to the small shelf that held his favorite books. I ran my fingers along their spines, pausing at the one with the golden dragon on the cover. He’d once made me read it three times in one night, his small hand always finding mine under the covers.

A sob clawed its way up my throat. I pressed the sweater tighter against my chest and sank to the floor, curling myself into a small ball, like I could somehow disappear into the fabric, into the past, into any moment that wasn’t now.

No amount of screaming could fill the emptiness.

No amount of blame could bring Rowe back.

I rocked gently, the floor cold beneath me, whispering his name like a mantra, like a prayer, like an apology.

“I’m so sorry. Rowe, come back to me.”

My voice broke as the words cracked through me. The ache inside was no longer emotional—it had become physical, a gnawing in my ribs, a tightening in my chest. I was a mother without her child, a body with no pulse, a soul stranded in the ruins of a life that had been beautiful because he had been in it.

And now, there was only this.

Rowe’s room, frozen in time.

And me forever left behind.

I don’t remember what he said to start the fight.

It all blurs together now—his voice, smug and sure, carving into me like a dull blade. Something about Rowe wouldn’t want me like this. Something about how it wasn’t his fault.

I snapped.

It wasn’t expected. I didn’t plan to lose control, but my world had spiraled and I didn’t have a shred of willpower left.

I laughed. Loud and empty and sharp. Because how dare he say Rowe’s name. How dare he pretend he wasn’t the reason my broken son was zipped into a body bag.

“He was eight,” I screamed. “Eight! And you sent him away like he was some fucking inconvenience you could pay to disappear!”

Oliver’s face didn’t even twitch. He looked through me as though I were no longer a real person.

“He needed structure,” he said, calmly and controlled.

I spat at his feet. “Fuck your structure!”

“You seem to have forgotten yours—”

“Go fuck yourself, Oliver!”

He followed me throughout the house. I practically ran from him. My hysteria merged with this desire to get as far away from this prick as I could. “You killed him!”

“Slow down—”