While my husband was away for two days, I played hide-and-seek with our six-year-old daughter. She refused, whispering that last time she hid in one of Daddy’s boxes, he got angry and warned her, “If Mommy finds this, we’ll be in big trouble.”
After she fell asleep, dread drove me to the garage. Hidden beneath old magazines, I found the box. Inside were photos of my husband with another woman and a baby, legal documents, and a letter dated weeks ago. My heart stopped when I realized the woman wasn’t a stranger—it was my sister, who supposedly died after giving birth to a stillborn son.
The truth was worse. The baby lived. And then I found a hospital bracelet with my name—from the day of my miscarriage.
My husband wasn’t hiding another family.
He was hiding my child.
