Two years after losing Sarah, I didn’t think my heart would ever heal.
Then came Amelia—gentle-beautiful, patient, warm. She stepped into our world, filled it with laughter, and connected with Sophie like sunshine through a window.
We remarried and moved into Amelia’s inherited home: a charming, welcoming space that Sophie adored. When I left for a week on business, I thought everything would be perfect.
But when I came home, Sophie didn’t greet me with her usual smile. Instead, she clung to me, whispering in a scared little voice, “Daddy… the new mom is different when you’re gone.”
What she said next stopped me cold.
“She’s locking herself in the attic. She’s making strange noises… She’s suddenly strict. No ice cream. She makes us clean. It’s not like before.”
My heart twisted at Sophie’s fear. Had grief clouded my judgment? Was Amelia masking darkness behind that warm glow?
Now, I’m torn between wanting to believe in the love that saved us—and protecting my daughter whom I’ll die to keep safe. The question that haunts me:
Should I confront Amelia—or trust the instinct of a child who’d never lie about fear?