The day I buried Emily, all I had left were our memories—until something slipped from behind our engagement photo that night, and my world shifted.
The black ribbon on our front door announced the grief the whole neighborhood already knew. Inside, everything smelled off—sympathy casseroles and furniture polish. Jane, Emily’s sister, had cleaned while I was at the hospital. Now the house felt alien.
In our room, the fresh sheets made it worse. The bed didn’t even smell like her anymore. I lay on her side, clutching our engagement photo, missing her so deeply it hurt. That’s when I found it.
A second photo was hidden behind the frame—Emily, years younger, cradling a newborn in a hospital bed. Her handwriting on the back read, “Mama will always love you,” followed by a phone number.
Shaking, I called it. A woman named Sarah answered. She’d adopted Emily’s baby—her daughter—Lily. I was stunned. Emily and I had tried for years to have children. She never told me she already had one.
“She was afraid,” Sarah explained. “But she loved you. She loved both of you.”
The next day, I met Lily. She had Emily’s eyes, her laugh. When we hugged, it felt like a piece of Emily had come back to me.
We talked for hours. I shared stories of her mother; she shared her life, her dreams. Emily had kept her secret out of love—to give Lily a chance at a better life.
That night, I placed Lily’s photo beside our engagement one. I touched Emily’s smiling face and whispered, “You did good, Em. I’ll do right by her. By both of you.”