The day I buried Emily, I thought all I had left were memories. But that night, something slipped from behind our engagement photo—a hidden picture of Emily, young and fragile, cradling a newborn. Scrawled on the back were the words: “Mama will always love you,” and a phone number.
Shaking, I called. A woman named Sarah answered, explaining she had adopted Emily’s daughter, Lily, 25 years ago. Emily, only 19 at the time, had made the hardest choice out of love, never telling me the truth. Anger mingled with heartbreak—years of trying for a child, and Emily had kept this from me.
Sarah arranged for me to meet Lily. When I saw her, it was like seeing Emily again—her eyes, her smile. We spent hours talking, sharing stories of Emily. Lily revealed Emily had sent her birthday cards every year, quietly loving her from afar.
That night, I placed Emily’s hidden photo next to our engagement picture. “You did good, Em,” I whispered. “I promise, I’ll take care of her.”
