It had been two years since I lost my wife before I decided to marry again. My daughter, Tessa, who was five at the time, and I moved into the spacious house that my new wife, Laura, had inherited from her parents. In the beginning, Laura seemed like a gentle, patient presence—a true beam of hope in both our lives.
One evening, after returning from a week away on business, Tessa clung to me and whispered with trembling words, “Daddy, new Mom acts differently when you’re not here.” A chill ran through me.
“What do you mean, honey?” I asked, bending down so I could look her in the eyes.
“She goes into the attic and locks the door,” Tessa replied. “I hear strange sounds. It scares me. She says I’m not allowed in. And… she’s mean.”
I felt shock tightening my chest. “Why do you say she’s mean, sweetheart?”
“She makes me clean my entire room by myself and doesn’t let me have ice cream—even if I’ve been good.”
The locked attic caught my attention. I’d seen Laura head up there a few times, but I had assumed it was her private area. Hearing that she was also strict with Tessa alarmed me. Had I rushed into this marriage without fully understanding who Laura was?
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