After the funeral, the house felt hollow, as though even the walls were mourning. Emily withdrew into herself, and I focused on keeping us afloat. I was grieving as well, but I couldn’t afford to fall apart when she needed stability.
Years later, I met Linda.
She was energetic, warm, and had a presence that filled space. She had a daughter, Jesse, who was 13 then. It felt like a chance for both of us to start again—two single parents rebuilding from loss. We married and merged our families, and at first, it seemed promising.
Sometimes Emily would glance at me during dinner, silently checking if I’d noticed. Jesse mirrored her mother’s behavior with smirks and eye rolls she assumed went unseen.
When I asked Emily if things were alright, she always answered, “I’m fine, Dad. Really.” But I knew better. She was protecting peace—for my sake. And I kept convincing myself I was imagining things, or that Linda was simply adjusting.
Life moved forward. Emily went to college, met a good man, married him, and now—seven months pregnant—she lives in another city. We speak often. She promised her child would grow up knowing their grandfather well.
She sent me photos of her growing belly, smiling brightly though her eyes always looked tired. Each picture filled me with pride and with longing that her mother wasn’t there to see it.
I prepared the house for her visits. A queen-sized bed in the guest room. A crib in the corner. I wanted her to feel welcome—always. Then I had to travel overseas for work, a week-long conference. On the fifth day, Emily called to say she’d driven down to surprise me while I was away. I was thrilled and told her to make herself at home.
What I didn’t tell her was that my meetings ended early.
Near midnight, I pulled into the driveway after more than 20 hours of travel. I was exhausted, suitcase dragging behind me, craving sleep. The moment I stepped inside, that exhaustion vanished.
In the hallway’s dim light, Emily lay on the floor. My pregnant daughter.
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