“To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” I think it was J.K. Rowling who said that—or was it Ralph Waldo Emerson? Probably Rowling, given her flair for expressing heavy truths in sharp, memorable words. Not that Emerson didn’t use strong words too—it’s just… well, you understand. 

Speaking of strong, the hands holding me down in this water are something else. I’m not surprised—it’s Tom, after all. When you share a life with a man for twelve years, nothing shocks you anymore… like your own husband wanting you dead.  I only wish he’d release his grip on my skull. I don’t intend to fight anymore. I no longer intend to fight. I won’t kick or thrash, or struggle to come up for air. The first impulse to break the surface came from instinct, the second from disbelief, the third from exhaustion. Now I let myself float into it, I let the current cradle me, and as the lake consumes me, I think I finally understand what J.K. Rowling meant.

  I was twenty-three when I met him. Too young to see red flags, too hungry for love to care if the flag was waving. He was tall, smiling, with the kind of charisma that makes waitresses lean closer when pouring coffee. He laughed when I tripped over my umbrella and said, “Well, that’s fate doing us a favor.”  

Fate, yes. That night he told me he believed in destiny, and I wanted to believe too. I was a girl with a notebook full of poems, a restless heart for travel, and a savings jar labeled Paris. When he kissed me beneath a broken streetlamp, I thought: perhaps I don’t need Paris. Perhaps I only need this man. 

 We married in the flowering season, when bougainvillea draped the streets. The church was perfumed with lilacs. He slipped a ring on my finger, whispering promises. Protection, he said. Forever. Everyone said I was lucky. I believed them.  

The first bruise wasn’t on my skin but on my spirit. He said I talked too much, laughed too loud, embarrassed him at dinner. He pressed my knee under the table—smile, he said, but smaller. I told myself it was love straining under stress.  

The first time his palm struck, I was making bean cakes. Too much salt, not enough pepper, he said, and his hand cracked across my cheek. My ears rang, but I smiled. It’s nothing. He’s tired. He loves me. I had already built him a throne in my heart, and I knelt at its base. 

That throne became a cage. He locked me in silence, whittled me thin with insults: stupid, useless, ungrateful. He tugged me away from friends, clipped my wings, clipped my voice. Still, he would bring roses afterward, press them into my hands. See? I told myself. He loves me. 

Violence wasn’t his language, only his punctuation. He saved it for when I danced, when I sang, when I dared to sparkle. Then his fists spoke. Then his voice grew sharp as broken glass.  

And yet, I stayed. At first, out of devotion. Later, for Amara. My precious eleven-year-old sunlight bottled into a body. She has Tom’s eyes, though softer, full of questions. To her, Tom is Daddy—the hero who lifts her onto his shoulders, teaches her to ride her pink bicycle, and tucks her into bed with silly voices. She has never seen him raise a hand to me. I made sure of that. 

“Mummy, Daddy loves you so much,” she tells me. And I nod. Because she must believe it. 

 I still remember her last birthday, frosting on her fingers, her giggle when she smeared it across my nose. Tom stood beside her, smiling, the perfect father. No one could see the bruise hidden under my sleeve, or the welt fading on my ribs. That was the pact: I would swallow pain so she could swallow laughter. But even that was not enough. 

Tom had other… hungers. The trust fund had always been a bone of contention. Twice he’d asked, twice I’d refused. The first time, I saw the storm tighten in his jaw, his smile stretched too thin. That night, he told me to cover my shoulders, that my dress was indecent. The second time, he locked me outside in the rain for answering too quickly. 

Today when he asked again, I measured my words and said, “It all goes to Amara.” He smiled and told me he understood. Then he said, 

“Come outside with me. I want to show you something. A surprise.”  

I followed. Deep down, I probably knew. But twelve years of abuse had taught me obedience like prayer.  And lo, the surprise was the lake. The stars mirrored on its surface, silver and serene. He kissed my cheek, took my hand, then shoved my head beneath the water.  

So yes, Rowling, I get it now—not as a phrase but as a weight, a clarity washed into me by water. The water, unlike Tom, does not lie, does not demand, does not punish. It is cold but not cruel. It hums. It welcomes me. My lungs scream, but my skin feels kissed, stroked even. In its vast, indifferent embrace, I find a peace I have not known since before Tom first touched me. 

Right now, I will enjoy my last adventure. I will relish my dismal descent into the throes of death. These few seconds of consciousness are everything. This is freedom. Here the past is slippery, and all I can think of is the air in my lungs. These waters, they caress my fingers and my hair. I’m the mermaid in here, my beauty infinite, unlike Tom used to tell me. Look how my backless pink dress billows with life. Look how the waters lick me up in ways Tom never could.  

Oh, Amara, you should see me now. Remember me this way, ethereal, free, boundless.   

*******  

Behind the shrubs, silver moonlight spilled across the bank, where a little girl stood. She had tiptoed behind with a camera, hoping to catch her parents in a playful moment. Now she stood frozen, eyes wide, small hand clamped over her mouth as she watched her father hold her mother under the water.  

Tom didn’t notice the child behind him, or the camera capturing every shove, every desperate gasp from his wife. He also didn’t notice the child slip quietly back into the house with the evidence that would bring down his house of cards. 

And he didn’t hear when she picked up the phone.  

“Hello, Grandpa,” she said, “Daddy just killed Mummy.”