I tried not to let her words haunt me, but they did.
That night, after Jennifer had gone to bed, I watched Richard as he folded laundry on the couch, humming softly to himself.
The same Richard who once cried into my shoulder when our third round of IVF failed.
The man who held my hand through every heartbreak.
But now, with Jennifer’s words echoing in my mind, even the most innocent gestures took on a darker hue.
I told myself children say strange things all the time.
Trauma can twist perceptions.
Maybe she was just confused, or afraid of change.
Still… I couldn’t shake the feeling.
A few days later, I found Jennifer’s drawings tucked behind her bookshelf.
They were messy, made with crayons.
At first glance, they looked like what any child might draw — a house, a family of three stick figures.
But the man — the one labeled “Daddy” — always had angry eyebrows, red scribbles for hands.
In some, he stood in a dark corner, eyes watching the smaller figures.
In others, the small girl figure was drawn with tears falling down her face, her arms reaching toward the “Mommy” who never seemed to look her way.
I felt sick.
That night, I asked Jennifer again, gently, “Sweetheart, what did you mean the other day?”
She was quiet for a long time, eyes downcast. Then, barely above a whisper:
“Daddy was my other mommy’s friend. He used to visit. But only when she was gone. He told me not to tell.”
My breath caught. “Your other mommy? Before us?”
She nodded slowly.
The pieces clicked together like ice cracking beneath my feet. Jennifer’s file mentioned her mother died in a car accident.
The father was never listed. A “friend of the family” had dropped her at the hospital after she was found alone at home.
A chill settled over me.
That night, after Richard fell asleep, I slipped out of bed and went into the office.
I pulled out Jennifer’s file, our adoption paperwork, everything I could find. I began making calls — quietly, carefully.
And what I uncovered… made my blood run cold.
Richard hadn’t just known Jennifer’s birth mother.
He’d been investigated once. No charges were filed. The case was buried.
But a name — his name — had been in the system.
And now, she was here, living in the same house.
With us.
With him.