After my daughter’s death, I accidentally discovered that Luke Harrison already had another family. The man who could barely bring himself to smile in front of our daughter was warm and affectionate toward another child—a boy. In fact, on the day my daughter was kidnapped, Luke was out shopping and playing with his son. The teacher’s calls went unanswered, and it wasn’t until days later that the police found her lifeless body. Before we divorced, I confronted Luke in tears, demanding answers. It was only then, after a long silence, that he finally spoke. “Faye,” he said, his voice low, “I’ve already lost one child. I can’t lose another.” I found out about Luke’s other child the day I picked up my daughter’s ashes from the crematorium. Driving home, I passed through a park and saw him—Luke, who was supposed to be at work. He was holding hands with a little boy, a smile on his face so unfamiliar, so alien to me, that I almost didn’t recognize him. I pulled over, watching from a distance as they walked toward a parked car. And then, Luke lifted the boy into his arms. The child laughed sweetly, calling him “Dad.” The sound snapped me out of my daze. I straightened my back, clutching the photo of my daughter in my hands. The phone on the seat beside me lit up, then dimmed again. I stared at it, my fingers hovering over the screen, my mind frozen on the number I knew by heart. I didn’t press call. Through the window, I watched them embrace—a picture-perfect pair of father and son, so ordinary it made my chest ache. A wave of frustration and bitterness rose inside me, sharp and suffocating. I tossed the phone aside and stared at my hands, memories flooding my mind. Luke had always been absent. He’d missed so many of our daughter’s birthdays, barely smiled in her presence, and rarely came home. Even the day she was taken, it was because he had forgotten to pick her up. That morning, knowing I had to leave for work, I’d reminded Luke over and over to pick up our daughter from preschool. I even sent him a message before leaving, just to be sure. But when I returned home that evening, the message was still marked unread. The teacher’s calls had gone unanswered. Our daughter had been left waiting alone, and in that moment of vulnerability, someone had taken her. I didn’t know where Luke had been that day or what he was doing. All I knew was that when I tried calling him that night, he didn’t answer. My messages went ignored. The next morning, the police called to tell me that my daughter had been found—but it was too late. In just one night, my little girl had been taken from me forever. When I rushed home, the house was empty. Luke hadn’t even come back. Desperate and seething with grief, I went to his office, screaming at him, demanding answers. He frowned, annoyed, and tried to deflect the blame. “I told you I’ve been busy with work,” he said coldly. “I didn’t have time to pick her up.” At the funeral, he seemed sad for a moment—just a moment. Then he went back to being the distant, indifferent man he’d always been. He stopped coming home altogether after that, spending more nights away than at the house. And yet, today, I had seen him playing with that little boy, his patience infinite, his smile soft and genuine. The memory of my daughter’s shy voice echoed in my mind. Just days before she was taken, she’d asked him hesitantly, “Daddy, can we have dinner together?” Luke had barely looked at her. His phone buzzed with a message, and his expression softened as he read it. “Sorry,” he said, his tone firm but distant. “Daddy’s too busy. Maybe next time.” But his “next times” had piled up, one after another, until they became never. I sat in my car, watching them until their figures disappeared around the corner. Finally, I started the engine and drove home.
That night, Luke didn’t come home. It was just like always. I didn’t call him. Instead, I drove to his office, parking outside. I waited for hours. The lights in the building eventually went out one by one. The security guard locked the doors, and the street fell into darkness. The cold night air seeped into my skin, leaving me numb. My mind was blank. I glanced at my phone. The last message from Luke was still sitting there, unread. “I’m working late tonight. Don’t wait up.” The same excuse, over and over again. I didn’t want to think about where he was or who he was with. But I couldn’t stop remembering the way my daughter used to wait for him at night, her little face lighting up every time the door opened. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cold, clinical texts he used to send, and the way his voice had sounded earlier that day when he spoke to that other child. The memories played on a loop in my mind until they blurred into one clear image: Luke, smiling as he held someone else’s child. My phone was in my hand before I even realized it. I called him. He answered after a few rings, his voice muffled by background noise. “Are you still at work?” I asked quietly, staring up at the dark office building. There was a pause, then silence. In the background, I heard it: a child’s voice, calling him “Dad.” The sound was like a knife to my chest, sharp and unforgiving. “Faye…” he began, but his voice trailed off. The empty street was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. And in that silence, memories came flooding back—memories I had tried so hard to suppress. I thought of the college years, when Luke had barely spoken to anyone, and I had foolishly chased after him, thinking I could warm his cold heart. I thought of our wedding day, when I cried tears of joy while he remained silent, distant. I’d told myself he was just reserved, that he didn’t know how to express his feelings. But now, the truth was impossible to ignore. Luke had never loved me. And he had never loved our daughter. He had been indifferent all along, taking everything for granted while I clung to my delusions. I’d turned myself into the heroine of some tragic love story, ignoring every red flag, every warning from friends. “Faye, are you still there?” His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “How old is he?” I asked, my voice trembling. The line went silent. When Luke finally answered, his voice was low, hesitant. “Five,” he said. Five. A year younger than my daughter. My throat tightened, the cold air stinging my lungs as I struggled to breathe. I wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers. But instead, I forced myself to speak calmly, my voice steady despite the tears streaming down my face. “Come home tomorrow,” I said. “We need to finalize the divorce.” There was a long pause. “Faye—” “I’m letting you go, Luke,” I interrupted, my voice breaking. And then I hung up.
By The Time I Got Home, It Was Already Past Midnight As I opened the door, I was greeted by the sight of Luke Harrison standing in the entryway. He had clearly been home for a while. The floor around him was littered with cigarette butts, and the sharp, acrid smell of smoke clung to his clothes. Luke used to smoke a lot when he was first building his business, a way to cope with the stress. But after we had our daughter, he swore he quit. He’d even said it was for her. Occasionally, he’d do things like that—small, thoughtful actions that felt like sugar after a slap. Little gestures to make me forget how cold and distant he could be. I opened my mouth, ready to bring up the divorce, but before I could say a word, Luke did something unexpected. “Are you hungry?” he asked. From behind his back, he pulled out a box of pastries—from my favorite bakery, no less. I shook my head, but he didn’t stop. He rushed to pour me a glass of water, fussing around the kitchen like he was too busy to stop and talk. By the time he was done, I’d lost my nerve. It hit me, then, that Luke wasn’t just stalling—he was avoiding the topic entirely. And for a fleeting moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. Maybe he didn’t want this marriage to end after all. But then my eyes drifted to the urn containing our daughter’s ashes, sitting quietly on the table. And that flicker of hope died as quickly as it had come. “Luke,” I began, my voice steady, “I want a div—” Before I could finish, his phone rang. The sound shattered the moment, and Luke eagerly grabbed it, relief flooding his face. At first, it seemed like he just wanted an excuse to leave the room. But after hearing something on the other end, his expression shifted to genuine concern. He quickly grabbed his coat, shrugging it on in a hurry. On instinct, I reached out and grabbed his hand. For a moment, he stopped. He looked at me, guilt flickering in his eyes, before gently pulling away. “Mason’s sick,” he said, his tone full of urgency. “It’s just a fever, but I need to go check on him. I’ll be back soon.” It was the first time in years he’d offered me an explanation for his absence. But instead of softening, my heart hardened. I couldn’t stop myself. “What about when our daughter was sick?” I shouted, my voice breaking. “What were you doing then, Luke? Where were you when I was calling you?” Years of resentment, frustration, and heartbreak erupted all at once, like a volcano that had been dormant for far too long. To my surprise, he didn’t slam the door and leave. Instead, he turned back and looked at me, his expression torn, as if he were weighing something in his mind. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he broke the silence. “Faye,” he said quietly, “I’ve already lost one child. I can’t lose another.” And with that, the door clicked shut behind him. I collapsed onto the floor, the strength draining from my body. His words echoed in my mind, ripping open old wounds that had barely begun to scab over. It was always like this. Every time I thought I was close to reaching him, to understanding him, he would pull away, leaving me further behind than before. For the first time, I began to question everything—the years we’d spent together, the love I thought we had. Had I been living a lie all along? As I sat there, numb, my hand brushed against a glass on the table. It tipped over and shattered on the floor. Instinctively, I stepped forward, barefoot, and the sharp sting of broken glass cutting into my skin jolted me back to reality. Pain has a way of clearing your mind. I didn’t pull out the divorce papers I had prepared. Instead, I picked up my phone and made a call. “Hello? I’d like to file a lawsuit against my husband—for infidelity.”
I Sat in the Living Room Until Sunrise By the time the first rays of sunlight spilled through the window onto the coffee table, I finally got up from the couch. Luke still hadn’t come home. It was impossible to count how many days it had been since I’d eaten properly. The gnawing hunger twisted my stomach, a relentless protest I could no longer ignore. I went into the kitchen, boiled some water, and pulled a bag of frozen dumplings from the freezer. The routine was automatic—dropping them into the pot, stirring, waiting—like muscle memory. When they were ready, I ate in silence, shoving the dumplings into my mouth, chewing mechanically, swallowing without tasting. The thought of following my daughter into death had crossed my mind once, but only for an instant. Because while the idea of escaping it all seemed tempting, the hatred burning inside me was stronger. The person who had taken her was still out there, free. If I gave up now, how could I ever face her again? After I washed the dishes, I did something I hadn’t done in years—I cleaned the entire house, top to bottom, every corner. When I was done, I found myself standing in front of Luke’s office door. He always locked it when he left, but today, in his rush, he’d forgotten. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The first thing I saw was the desk, scattered with photos, and a package sitting in the corner. My mind flashed back to a few days ago, when Luke had come home unexpectedly, carrying a delivery. I’d thought it was mine and reached for it, only for him to snatch it away, his movements uncharacteristically frantic. The sender’s note said it was from a photography studio. I’d assumed it was something for our daughter, maybe a surprise. Her birthday had been coming up, and I’d been pestering him to help me make a photo album for her. When I saw how nervous he looked, I didn’t think much of it. I even felt touched, convinced he was finally making an effort. I’d patted his shoulder with a smile, grateful. But now, the truth hit me like a slap to the face. The photos scattered on the desk told a story I hadn’t been ready to see. Every single one of them was of Luke and the boy. In the top photo, the boy was just a baby, and Luke was holding him awkwardly, wonder and joy written all over his face. I thought back to when our daughter was born. Luke hadn’t even made it to the hospital until hours later, long after she’d arrived. It had been just me and my parents in the delivery room. Even the doctor had commented on how absent he was, calling him an unfit father. When Luke finally showed up that night, he stood silently at the edge of the room, his expression blank, his presence cold. From the moment she was born, he had never once voluntarily held her. I always had to push her into his arms. Now, I looked through photo after photo of Luke and the boy—smiling, laughing, close. Each image felt like a twist of the knife. At first, I felt overwhelming sadness. But as I flipped through the stack, that sadness gave way to numbness. Luke had never taken a single picture with our daughter. Not one. Every time she’d begged him to take a photo with her, he’d brush her off, awkwardly changing the subject. But in these photos, he looked so different. His initial awkwardness gave way to pure joy, his face lighting up with pride as the years passed. There were so many pictures—an entire stack documenting his life with the boy. They weren’t just photos. They were evidence. Proof of the life he’d been living behind my back. In that moment, I realized how blind I’d been. Luke’s betrayal hadn’t been subtle. He wasn’t even good at hiding it. I’d just been too willing to believe him, too desperate to ignore the cracks in our marriage. But once I let myself see the truth, it was everywhere—undeniable and damning. I gathered the photos and the package, clutching them tightly as I left the room. The evidence had always been there. I’d just refused to look. And now, finally, I couldn’t look away.
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