The day I buried Emily, I thought all I had left were memories and photos. But that night, when a hidden picture fell from behind our engagement photo, my world shifted. What I discovered made me question if I ever truly knew her.
The black ribbon tied to the front door was a cruel reminder of the day’s events. I hesitated before unlocking the door, knowing the silence inside would hit me harder than the cemetery had.
The house felt wrong. It smelled of leather polish and untouched casseroles. Emily’s sister had “helped” clean while I stayed at the hospital, but her efforts only stripped away Emily’s presence.
“Home sweet home, Em,” I whispered out of habit, my voice cracking in the emptiness.
In our room, the fresh sheets didn’t belong. They erased the faint trace of her scent. Her side of the bed no longer carried her shape. The loss was suffocating.
I reached for our engagement photo, her laughter forever captured in that moment. Turning it over in my hands, I noticed something odd behind the frame. A folded photo slipped out, fluttering to the floor.
Picking it up, I froze. Emily was younger, cradling a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket, her face radiating both exhaustion and love. On the back, in her handwriting, were the words: “Mama will always love you,” followed by a phone number.
My heart raced. We had spent years trying for children—doctors, heartbreak, and dashed hopes. But who was this child?
Hands trembling, I dialed the number. Each ring felt endless until a woman answered.
“Hello?”
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