“Even though we could never be together the way we deserved… my kids and I will love you forever.”
For a long second, I didn’t understand what the words meant. My brain couldn’t process the implications.
Then I did.
The impossible claim that made no sense
Greg and I didn’t have children.
Not because we didn’t want them. Because I couldn’t carry them. Years and years of appointments, invasive tests, and quiet bad news delivered in sterile examination rooms. Years of me crying into his chest while he whispered reassurances, his voice steady and certain: “It’s okay. It’s you and me. That’s all we need. You are enough for me. You’ve always been enough.”
But apparently, somewhere out there, there were “our kids” who loved him “forever.”
My vision blurred completely. I grabbed the edge of the sink and forced myself to look at my reflection in the mirror. Mascara smeared down my cheeks. Eyes swollen and red. I looked like every cliché of grief rolled into one devastating image.
Who wrote this note? Who claimed to have children with my husband?
I didn’t cry. Not right then. I was too shocked, too confused, too angry to cry.
Instead, I went looking for answers.
Tracking down the truth on security cameras
The security office was a cramped little room with four monitors and a man in a gray uniform sitting behind a desk. His name tag identified him as Luis.
