It started as an ordinary day. I was searching for a pair of scissors in my wife Laura’s dresser when my fingers brushed against something unusual—a small, folded piece of paper tucked beneath her neatly arranged clothes.
Curious, I pulled it out and unfolded it.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was a hand-drawn birthday card. Crayon scribbles covered the front, spelling out “Happy Birthday, Mommy!” in a child’s uneven handwriting. Inside, a stick-figure drawing showed a woman with long hair—clearly Laura—holding hands with a small child. A tiny heart floated between them.
I stood there, frozen. My wife and I never had children.
A rush of thoughts flooded my mind. Had she been hiding a secret child from me? Had she been a mother before we met and never told me? Was she having an affair and this was his child?
I felt my stomach twist as I heard her footsteps approaching.
I quickly placed the card back and closed the drawer, but my hands trembled.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Laura asked, stepping into the room.
I turned, trying to steady my voice. “I was looking for scissors.”
She nodded, but her eyes studied me carefully.
I couldn’t hold it in. “Laura… I found something in your drawer.”
Her face paled. “What?”
I pulled out the card and held it up. “This. Who made this for you?”
For a moment, she just stared at it. Then, to my surprise, tears welled in her eyes. She sat down on the edge of the bed, gripping the card tightly.
I softened. “Laura, please. Tell me the truth.”
She took a shaky breath. “Before I met you, I was pregnant.”
My heart pounded.
“But… I lost the baby.” Her voice cracked. “It was a little girl. I had already picked out a name—Sophie. I was five months along when I miscarried.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she traced the drawing with her fingers. “After I lost her, I struggled. I went to therapy, trying to heal. One day, my therapist suggested I write letters to my unborn child—to process my grief.”
I swallowed hard, guilt creeping in for doubting her.
“I wrote to her every year on my birthday,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “This year, I decided to draw something. Just to feel close to her.”
I sat beside her, placing a hand over hers. “Laura… I had no idea.”
She looked up at me, pain and vulnerability in her eyes. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was holding onto something I shouldn’t. I love you, and I’m happy with the life we have. But Sophie will always be a part of me.”
Tears burned my own eyes as I pulled her into my arms.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “She’s a part of us now, too.”
And in that moment, I knew we would heal—together.
Would you like any refinements to the story?
