Fitch called me unexpectedly while I was on my way to pick up our daughter, Jolin, from school. He asked me to take his place because he had an urgent matter at work.

At that moment, I was battling a high fever, but I hurried to her school with growing concern.

The worst happened—a runaway truck struck my daughter, and she died on the spot.

I stared at my bloodied daughter, sobbing uncontrollably, my tears blurring my vision.

Just then, my husband's mistress, Brynn, posted a WhatsApp status. “You are my eternal moonlight. It's so wonderful to have you.”

In the photo, Fitch and Brynn were close, their eyes filled with affection.

Fury surged through me as I took a screenshot and sent it to Fitch, demanding, “Is this your urgent matter? Is this why you left our five-year-old Jolin by the roadside?”

I called him frantically, but he never answered.

It wasn't until I had endured the agony, arranged Jolin's funeral, and had her cremated and buried that Fitch finally responded.

“Jolin was five; she was old enough to be independent. I left her at the entrance of a snack shop; it's safe.”