I FOUND AN OLD WOODEN BOX IN THE ATTIC CONTAINING A STRANGE PHOTOGRAPH.
The attic air was thick with dust, and the old box lid creaked open ominously before me. The heat up there was suffocating, pressing down like a heavy blanket, but something compelled me to keep sifting through the forgotten things piled around me. Tucked behind a broken lamp covered in cobwebs, I found it – a small, scarred wooden box my husband swore he got rid of years ago.
Inside, beneath some faded letters tied with string and an old pocket knife, was a single, slightly curled photograph. My breath hitched, a cold knot forming in my stomach. It was him, younger maybe, smiling wide, arm casually around a woman I’d never seen before, both holding a tiny blue baby blanket between them.
I stumbled downstairs, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, the photo shaking violently in my hand. He looked up from his phone on the couch, his face draining instantly of all color when he saw what I was holding. “What in God’s name IS that?” I whispered, my voice barely a shaky breath.
He lunged for it, dropping his phone with a clatter, but I scrambled back, clutching the photo tight. His eyes were wide and wild with panic. “You weren’t supposed to find that,” he choked out, his face pale and slick with sweat in the harsh overhead light. That’s when the first pieces of the sickening truth fell into place; he finally admitted it wasn’t just an old photo from ‘before us.’ It was from last year. Just three months ago.
He suddenly stopped talking and stared past me towards the front window with a look of pure terror.
“What is it?” I demanded, my voice rising. He just shook his head, backing away slowly, his gaze still fixed on the window. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“She… she can’t be here,” he stammered, his voice barely audible.
Suddenly, a soft knock echoed from the front door. My blood ran cold. It was a gentle, almost hesitant knock, but it resonated with a chilling familiarity I couldn’t place. He froze, his face a mask of pure dread.
Ignoring his silent pleas, I walked towards the door, the photograph still clutched tightly in my hand. Every step felt like wading through thick mud, my body heavy with dread and a growing sense of understanding. I reached for the doorknob, my hand trembling.
As I opened the door, I saw a woman standing on our porch. She was young, maybe a few years younger than me, and held a baby wrapped in a – my stomach lurched – blue blanket. Her eyes met mine, and they were filled with a sorrow so profound, it felt like a physical blow.
“I… I need to talk to him,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “It’s about the baby.”
I stepped aside, letting her in. He stood frozen, speechless, as she walked towards him, cradling the baby close. She stopped a few feet away, her gaze unwavering.
“He deserves to know,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “She’s his. She’s very sick. And she needs a bone marrow transplant. You’re the only match.”
The colour drained completely from his face. He sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. The woman stood there, resolute, offering him a chance to save his child, and a chance to finally face the consequences of his actions. As I watched them, a strange sense of calm washed over me. The lies were out in the open. The truth, however painful, was finally here. My marriage might be over, shattered by betrayal, but a little girl’s life hung in the balance. The choice, at least, was clear.