Page 9 of The Sound of Forever
But now? Now, I let myself face it. I let myself feel every jagged edge of it.
I had a daughter.
We lost our daughter.
And with her, I lost the love of my life.
I don’t know if forgiveness will ever be mine—not from Ophelia, not from myself. But I know this pain is mine to carry. It’s a part of me now, as permanent as the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins.
Because no matter how much time passes, I can’t escape the truth: I failed them both.
ChapterSixteen
Keane
Day Sixty
Today, the anger feels quieter. It’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it doesn’t consume me the way it used to. For the first time, I let myself think ofher,my little girl, without bracing for the ache to rip me apart.
She should be six years old.
Six.
She’d be in first grade by now, walking into her classroom with a backpack far too big for her little frame. I can see her, turning back to flash me that wide, toothy grin that could brighten the darkest day. I bet she’d already have her favorite color. She’d insist on wearing everything with that color. She’d have a favorite song, the one she’d sing at the top of her lungs, getting all the words wrong but not caring. Her favorite bedtime story, one she’d demand every single night until we knew it by heart.
I wonder if she’d still hold my hand on the way to school, her fingers small and warm in mine. Or would she have already started pulling away, eager to show me just how grown-up she was?
I can almost hear her laugh—bright, untamed, happy. I can picture her running through the house, her hair flying in every direction, her energy unstoppable. Would she have loved art like her mom? Music like me? Or would she have found something completely different, surprising us both at every turn?
These thoughts used to destroy me. They felt like opening a wound that could never close, a pain too raw to face. But now, they’re all I have. The life she should have lived, the person she should have become—they exist only in my mind. And I’m terrified that if I stop thinking about her, I’ll lose that, too.
Can you mourn someone who never had the chance to exist outside your hopes and dreams? Can you grieve a life you tried so hard not to think about because the pain was too much? Can you miss someone you never met?
I don’t have an answer. Yet here I am, tangled in the guilt, the questions, the endless spiral of what-ifs.
The therapist says I should try to remember her with love, not just loss. But love and loss feel inseparable, like two sides of the same coin. Still, I’m trying. Maybe this is how I keep her with me—by holding onto the dreams of who she could have been, by letting myself love her fully, even if it’s only in my memories of what might have been.
I miss her in a way I never imagined. I’ll always miss her. But today, I’m holding onto the love. For both of us.
ChapterSeventeen
Keane
Day Sixty-Three
One of the hardest parts while dealing with my daughter’s death is realizing I don’t miss Ophelia the way I should. Not the real her, not the woman she was. What I miss—what leaves this gaping, raw wound—is what she meant to me. I’m over her and yet I miss what she gave me, what she represented.
Philly made me feel like I belonged somewhere: like there was a version of me that could be better, brighter, more whole. She had this way of looking at me, not through me, like most people, but into me. She saw all the jagged, broken pieces I tried to keep hidden. But instead of turning away, she leaned closer. She tried to glue them back together.
She made me believe I wasn’t just the sum of my mistakes. All the fuckups didn’t define me.
Before her, I’d spent my life fighting to prove myself—working so hard to be worth something to someone. And then she came into my life, and it was like she’d already decided I was enough. I didn’t have to ask for it; didn’t have to beg for it. She loved me simply because I was me.
And how sad and fucked up is it that I miss that feeling more than I miss her?
It’s a bitter thing to admit. Selfish, even. But it’s the truth. She was the one person who made me feel safe in my own skin, like I could let my guard down and the world wouldn’t fall apart.
I think about her sometimes. If the letter I sent to her was enough to forgive me. If there’s something more I have to do to tell her how sorry I am for all that I put her through.
