The day I buried my wife Emily, I came home to a quiet house that felt nothing like home. Everything was too clean, too still — like life had been scrubbed out along with her scent. Grief hit me hardest when I found our engagement photo on the dresser. I picked it up, desperate to feel close to her again. But then something slipped from behind the frame — an old, hidden photo. It was Emily, much younger, in a hospital bed holding a newborn baby. Her face was tired, scared, but full of love. On the back,
in shaky handwriting: “Mama will always love you,” followed by a phone number. We had no children. We’d tried for years and failed. So who was this child? I called the number, heart pounding. A woman named Sarah answered. She explained gently that Emily had a daughter when she was nineteen. She’d given the baby up for adoption — to Sarah — believing she couldn’t give her the life she deserved. My mind reeled. Emily had never told me. Not during our years of heartbreak, not through all the fertility treatments, not once. “She was afraid,”