The day I buried Emily, all I had left were memories and photos. But that night, as I picked up our engagement picture, something slipped from behind it. My hands trembled as I uncovered a secret that made me question if I’d ever truly known her.
A black ribbon hung from the front door, a stark reminder of the day’s heartbreak. The house smelled foreign—polished leather and sympathy casseroles—thanks to Emily’s sister, Jane, who had “helped” by cleaning during Emily’s final hospital days. The unnatural shine of everything felt wrong, like the life Emily and I shared had been wiped away.
Our bedroom was worse. Jane had changed the sheets, erasing Emily’s scent. Even the bed seemed to deny she had ever been there. I collapsed onto her side, grief pouring out in whispers to the emptiness.
Fifteen years together had ended with casseroles and a ribbon on the door. I stared at our engagement photo, drawn to her laughter frozen in time. As I held it, my fingers caught on something beneath the frame. Curious, I pried it open. A photograph slipped out—old, worn, and unfamiliar.
Emily, much younger, cradled a newborn in a hospital bed. Her tired, fearful expression softened by an overwhelming love stunned me. We had tried for years to have children but never could. Who was this baby? On the back, her shaky handwriting read: “Mama will always love you.” Below it, a phone number.
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