Memories started surfacing—small comments, subtle digs, things I had brushed off before. Now they felt different. Sharper.
I began searching through Emily’s belongings.
In the closet, I found her jewelry box. Beneath it was a folded piece of paper.
A letter.
From my mother.
“Emily, you will never be good enough for my son. You trapped him with this pregnancy. If you care about them, leave before you ruin their lives.”
My hands trembled.
This was it.
This was why she left.
I went straight to the guest room and knocked until my mom opened the door.
“How could you?” I demanded, holding up the letter. “You’ve been tearing her down behind my back?”
“Daniel, listen—”
“No. You listen. She left because of you. You made her feel worthless.”
“I was protecting you,” she whispered. “She wasn’t good enough—”
“She’s the mother of my children!” I said. “You don’t get to decide that. Pack your things. You’re leaving.”
She stared at me, shocked.
“I mean it.”
An hour later, she was gone.
The following weeks were brutal.
Sleepless nights. Crying babies. And sometimes… me.
But every quiet moment brought Emily back to my mind.
I called everyone I could—friends, family. No one had heard from her.