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The black ribbon on the door told the world what had happened. I stood there, key in hand, remembering the burial that afternoon — my wife, Emily, lowered into the ground as Rev. Matthews spoke of angels.
Inside, the house smelled wrong. Jane, Emily’s sister, had cleaned everything while I was at the hospital. It gleamed in a way that felt hollow. I muttered an apology to Emily as I kicked off my shoes, already missing her voice scolding me for the scuff marks.
Our bedroom was the worst. Jane had changed the sheets, scrubbing away the last traces of Emily’s scent. Everything was neat, cold, empty. I whispered, “This isn’t real,” but the sympathy cards said otherwise. So did the pills on the nightstand.
She’d fought so hard. The cancer left, came back stronger, and finally took her. I collapsed onto her side of the bed. “Fifteen years,” I said into her pillow. “And this is how it ends?”
Then I noticed our engagement photo. As I picked it up, something slipped out from behind the frame — another photo, older, of Emily in a hospital bed holding a newborn. On the back, in shaky handwriting: “Mama will always love you.” And a phone number.
I called it.
A woman named Sarah answered. She had adopted Emily’s daughter — a child I never knew existed. “She was 19,” Sarah explained. “Terrified. But she never stopped loving that little girl.” The betrayal hit hard, but so did the realization: Emily had kept the secret to protect her daughter.
I asked to meet her.
The next day, I saw her — Lily. She had Emily’s eyes, smile, even her laugh. We talked for hours. She showed me her life; I told her about her mother.
“I’ve always wondered about you,” she said.
That night, I placed the hidden photo beside our engagement picture. Two versions of Emily — both filled with love.
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