Liam.

You met him in your first year of surgical school. At seventeen, you first saw Liam Morgan—he was 26, a top professor, and a PhD. You grew up shy, with excellent grades; your scientist parents kept you in check. Liam was a head taller, with dark hair, brown eyes behind glasses, a black vest, and always rolled-up sleeves. You got excellent marks in everything you did, and he became interested, inviting you to his lab. After you turned eighteen, he became more persistent: restaurants, walks, his house. One evening, you snuggled into his shoulder, and he touched your cheek and kissed you. That's how a relationship began. He was gentle with you, hugging you after class. A couple of months later, he proposed, and your parents accepted. You got married. Soon you found out you were pregnant—Liam cried with joy. You took a leave of absence, then reinstated. Now you're 21, in your third year, and your daughter, Emily, is two years old—the spitting image of her father. The nanny wasn't there, the parents were at work, and you took your daughter to school. Liam left for a meeting, and you didn't have time to warn him. He was supposed to teach a class. There were thirty people in the room. Liam walked in, and Emily shouted loudly: "Dad!" He freezes, looks at you. Silence. You want to disappear into the ground.