Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~6 min read
The nightmare came three months later, on a night like any other.
I woke gasping, tears streaming down my face, Ophelia’s voice still echoing in my ears.
“You took everything from me. My husband, my daughter, my life. You took it all.”
“Keira?” Damon’s voice, sleep-rough and concerned. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
I couldn’t speak, couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t shake the image of my sister’s face twisted in accusation.
Damon pulled me into his arms, murmuring soothing sounds, his hand rubbing circles on my back.
“Breathe,” he instructed gently. “Just breathe. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Gradually, my breathing slowed. The panic receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.
“Bad dream?” he asked.
I nodded against his chest.
“About Ophelia?”
Another nod.
He held me tighter. “Want to talk about it?”
“She hates me,” I whispered. “For being alive. For being with you. For raising Lily. She hates me.”
“Ophelia’s gone, sweetheart. She can’t hate you.”
“But if she could see us now—if she knew—” My voice cracked. “She’d hate that I’m happy. That I have everything she lost.”
Damon was quiet for a moment. Then: “Do you really think that? Or is this the guilt talking?”
“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” I pulled back to look at him. “I’m happy, Damon. Happier than I’ve ever been. And every time I let myself feel that happiness fully, there’s this voice in my head reminding me it’s built on my sister’s death.”
“It’s not—”
“It is, though.” I needed him to understand. “If Ophelia hadn’t died, we wouldn’t be together. I’d still be in New York, you’d still be married, and Lily would have her mother. My happiness came at the cost of her life. How am I supposed to live with that?”
He cupped my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“By accepting that life is complicated and messy and sometimes good things come from tragedy. By recognizing that Ophelia made choices—choices that hurt us both—and we’re allowed to build something good from the wreckage.” His thumb wiped away a tear. “You didn’t kill your sister, Keira. You didn’t cause her affair or her suicide or any of it. You’re just living the life she gave you. There’s no guilt in that.”
“Isn’t there?”
“No,” he said firmly. “There’s grief, yes. There’s complicated feelings about Ophelia and what she did. But guilt? You have nothing to feel guilty about. You love Lily. You love me. You’ve built a family from impossible circumstances. That’s not something to feel guilty about. That’s something to be proud of.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let go of the weight I’d been carrying.
“I went to her grave yesterday,” I admitted. “While you were at work. Brought flowers and just… sat there.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Nothing at first. Then—” I took a shaky breath. “I thanked her. For Lily. For pushing us together, even if her reasons were complicated. For giving me this life, even if she didn’t mean it the way it happened.” I looked up at him. “Is that horrible? Thanking my dead sister for dying?”
“It’s honest.” He kissed my forehead. “And I think Ophelia would appreciate the honesty. She was many things, but she was never one for pretense.”
We sat like that in the darkness, holding each other, processing grief and guilt and the complicated reality of loving someone new while mourning someone lost.
“I think I need to talk to someone,” I finally said. “A therapist. Like you’ve been doing.”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
“Will you help me find someone?”
“Of course. My therapist can recommend people. Or Tyler knows someone who specializes in grief counseling.”
“Okay.” I settled back against his chest. “Okay.”
“Keira?”
“Yeah?”
“I have nightmares too sometimes. About Ophelia. About that morning I found her. About all the ways I failed her.”
I pulled back to look at him. “You didn’t fail her.”
“Intellectually, I know that. But emotionally?” He shrugged. “It’s complicated. Which is why therapy helps. Because someone objective can point out when you’re catastrophizing or taking on guilt that isn’t yours.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Catastrophizing?”
“A little,” he said gently. “You’re allowed to be happy, Keira. Ophelia’s death doesn’t negate that. If anything, it makes your happiness more precious. Because life is short and unpredictable, and wasting it on guilt serves no one.”
He was right. I knew he was right.
But knowing and feeling were different things.
“I love you,” I said instead of arguing.
“I love you too. So much.” He pulled me back down to lie beside him. “Try to sleep. We can talk more in the morning if you need to.”
But I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about Ophelia. About all the ways our relationship had been tangled and competitive and difficult.
About how she’d known I loved Damon and married him anyway.
About how she’d had an affair and risked her marriage rather than face her unhappiness.
About how she’d killed herself rather than live with the consequences of her choices.
And about how her final act—whether intentional or not—had given me everything I’d ever wanted.
It was too much. Too complicated. Too heavy to carry alone.
Tomorrow, I’d find a therapist. I’d start processing this properly instead of carrying it like a weight in my chest.
But tonight, I’d let myself feel it all. The grief and the guilt and the complicated relief that came with survival.
Because Damon was right.
Life was short and unpredictable.
And I deserved to be happy, even if that happiness was born from tragedy.
Even if it meant living with the knowledge that my sister’s death had made my dreams possible.
Even if it meant accepting that love and loss were two sides of the same complicated coin.
I deserved it.
We both did.
And someday, maybe I’d believe that without the weight of guilt.
Someday.
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