Stephen had been away for seven hours when Layla mentioned the box.
It was a rare two-day trip, leaving me and our six-year-old daughter alone. We’d had a quiet night with mac and cheese, cartoons, and cuddling on the couch.
“Want to play hide-and-seek?” I asked.
Layla hesitated. “I don’t think I should, Momma,” she murmured.
“Why not? Want ice cream and more cartoons instead?”
Layla’s expression changed, and she clutched the cushion tightly. “Last time, Dad got mad. I don’t like it anymore.”
Confused, I asked, “Why did he get mad?”
“Because I hid in the garage. I found a box, but when Dad found me, he took it away really fast.”
“What was in the box?” I asked.
“I think it was just paper… but I wanted to find the Christmas lights.”
I pressed her, “What did Dad say?”
“He said if I found it, we’d be in trouble and that I shouldn’t see what was inside.”
A knot tightened in my stomach. Stephen was hiding something from me.
After putting Layla to bed, I headed to the garage, where boxes of old things were stacked high. Then, in the far corner, I found a newer box. Inside, I found a manila folder with a paternity test: Stephen: 0% probability of paternity.
I froze.
Stephen knew. He’d known for years. Layla wasn’t his. He had stayed with us, loving her as his own, despite knowing the truth.
The memories came flooding back—Ethan, that one night of weakness, and how it led to Layla’s birth.
Stephen had never said a word about it. He had carried that knowledge alone, choosing to stay.
The next morning, I cooked breakfast, but I couldn’t shake the guilt. When Stephen came in, he kissed my neck and smiled.
He casually mentioned, “I used to wonder if I’d regret staying, but I don’t. Not for a second.”
I broke. Some truths, I realized, were never meant to be uncovered. And some acts of love were too profound for words.