Broken Yet Untouched by Mark Twain 1
Chapter 1
A childhood trauma left my husband, Nathaniel Sanford, with a pathological inability to make decisions.
On our wedding day, traffic forced a detour. Paralyzed by the choice of route, he sat in the car for hours and missed the ceremony entirely.
When my father was critically ill, he spiraled into a panic attack over choosing between a flight and a train ticket. His indecision cost me the chance to say a final goodbye.
Even when I was in labor, hemorrhaging badly, he couldn’t bring himself to sign the consent form to switch from a natural delivery to a C-section. He stood frozen in the hospital lobby for three hours, unable to face it.
Our daughter, Veronica Sanford, was deprived of oxygen. Her intellectual development would forever remain that of a three-year-old.
Afterward, he knelt and begged for forgiveness. “Vivi… I can’t overcome this. But you have to believe I’ll spend the rest of my life protecting you and our daughter, okay?”
Tears in my eyes, I swallowed the bitterness. Nathaniel and our daughter were ill. I had to hold this family together.
But on our daughter’s sixth birthday, at an amusement park, a footbridge gave way. As she fell into the water, she screamed, “Dad! Help!”
I was already moving to jump in when another figure dove into the lake ahead of me.
It was a quick, certain, almost reflexive act.
Yet the child he instinctively, unhesitatingly saved was not our daughter.
***
Ignoring the doctor’s strict warning after my difficult birth to never expose myself to cold water again, I plunged into the icy lake.
I reached the bank with Veronica in my arms, her skin tinged with cyanosis, just in time to see Nathaniel step into the waiting ambulance, the rescued boy already with him.
“Nathaniel!”
I screamed his name until my throat tore.
All I got was the ambulance driving away.
I could only hold our daughter, waiting for the next ambulance that arrived three minutes later.
Clutching her cold, discolored hand, I shook uncontrollably with regret.
My reflection in the window looked hollow.
Eight years of being his wife left me with nothing left to weep.
Whenever Nathaniel faced a decision, his anxiety spiked. I ran the company alone, enduring late-night business dinners that stretched into dawn.
By my early thirties, I had severe stomach issues and a spine problem.
I did it all so he wouldn’t have to face the business choices that worsened his condition. So he could focus on his art, with me funding his exhibitions.
After Veronica’s brain injury was confirmed, my nights were for researching and calling doctors. My days were for comforting her and managing the company.
Nathaniel would just ask, “What should we do?”
I often cried silently in the dark, but I never allowed myself to regret or give up.
They were ill. I had to stay strong for them—there was no other option.
But now, listening to the cold, urgent alarm of the monitor signaling my daughter’s failing vitals, I was consumed by a regret unlike any I had ever known.
My eyes stung. I rubbed them, and my fingertips came away smeared with blood.
At the hospital, a nurse stopped me outside the emergency room.
“Please, you have to save my daughter. I’m begging you.”
“We’ll do our best.”
My legs gave way. I slid down the wall, letting the biting cold and the darkness swallow me whole.
Eventually, a warmth I knew too well drew me back.
I opened my eyes to find myself in a familiar embrace. It was Nathaniel.
“Vivi, I’m so sorry. I…”
Instinct made me lean into him.
But then I saw it—the black smudge of mascara, blurred by water, staining his shoulder.
A sharp, cloying perfume hit me, cutting through the haze.
My mind cleared. I looked up and, sure enough, saw a woman with red-rimmed eyes standing nearby.
Her face was the one from the painting Nathaniel had worked on for a year—the award-winning one.
He had called it “Muse”.
In that moment, everything became painfully clear.
I slapped him hard across the face.
His head snapped to the side, eyes red-rimmed. He instinctively pulled me tighter against him.
“Vivi… I’m sorry. But Estelle’s son is all she has left. If anything happened to him, she wouldn’t survive. I had to help…”
It felt like my heart was being shredded.
Because of Nathaniel, I had missed my final chance to see my own father.
My daughter was all I had left.
I shoved him away with all my strength and slapped him again. “What about Nika? Is she not your daughter?”
At once, Estelle Caldwell rushed over, placing herself between us, her eyes welling up. “Vivi, please don’t blame Nathan. He was frantic. When his condition takes over, he can’t control himself. You’re his wife. You should understand him better than anyone!”
A fresh wave of fury washed over me, and then the necklace around Estelle’s neck caught the light. My breath caught.
Against my own chest lay its perfect match.
Two years ago, after his successful exhibition—the first time he hadn’t agonized over a choice—Nathaniel had used his first earnings from painting to buy me that necklace.
I had been overjoyed, believing my efforts had finally paid off, that he had overcome his fears for our daughter and me.
It was just a convenient afterthought.
My arms fell limply to my sides. I spoke slowly, each word deliberate. “Both of you. Get out.”
Estelle’s crying intensified. Nathaniel instinctively drew her into his arms. “This isn’t Elle’s fault. Don’t take your anger out on her.
“Nika will be fine. If it means that much to you, I promise I’ll try to put her first from now on, okay?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, the “In Surgery” lights above two operating rooms on the hallway monitor went dark.
A sharp cry escaped Estelle.
Acting on pure instinct, Nathaniel immediately turned and hurried with her toward the operating room where her son was.
He only threw a few frantic words over his shoulder. “Vivi, I need to check on them first…”
I didn’t watch him go. I just ran into Veronica’s operating room.
The surgery was successful. She was out of immediate danger.
She lay there, asleep from the sedation. I bent down and softly brushed my lips against her cool forehead.
Then I took out my phone and made a call.
“Claud. Hire a private investigator. I need a full report on Nathaniel Sanford and Estelle Caldwell.
“Then have the divorce papers drafted.”
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