“I feel sorry for your wife. And your daughter.”
Brian flinched.
“We are never getting back together,” she continued. “Stop contacting me. This obsession isn’t romantic. It’s disturbing.”
He tried to speak. She raised her hand.
“If you contact me again, I’ll file for a restraining order.”
Then she walked away.
Brian stood there — deflated.
I backed away from the window, stunned.
I don’t remember how I reached the car. Only that Kiara was smiling, unaware of the storm.
Brian returned minutes later.
“Sorry,” he said lightly. “Bathroom line.”
I nodded. Smiled.
But I needed proof.
The following Sunday, I waited.
When he said, “Bathroom,” I didn’t hesitate.
I approached the blonde woman near the coffee table.
“I’m Brian’s wife,” I said quietly.
She looked exhausted.
“I heard everything last week,” I admitted.
She sighed and showed me her phone.
“My name is Rebecca,” she said. “And you’re not imagining this.”
Years of messages. Desperate ones. Angry ones. Unanswered ones.
And recently — a photo of the church sign with his message: “I see you. I know where you go.”
She explained how he had followed her since they were teenagers. Letters. Showing up at jobs. Moving states to escape him.