When my daughter’s music teacher looked up and our eyes met, the past slammed into me like a wave. My husband, Callum, had died suddenly a year and a half ago, and our daughter Wren, ten, had shut down—except for music.
One afternoon, I heard real chords from her room. “It’s for school,” she said. “Mr. Heath gets it. He doesn’t treat me like I’m broken.”
At the recital, Wren played Callum’s guitar. Behind her stood Mr. Heath—my first love, the boy who disappeared years ago.
Afterward, he handed me a notebook. Inside was Callum’s handwriting, dated three weeks before he died. The note revealed the truth: Heath was Wren’s biological father.
Callum had known. He had chosen us anyway. His words guided me: honesty, boundaries, and letting love—not secrets—shape our family. That night, Wren held the guitar and smiled, finally seeing all the pieces come together.