“Daddy loves you too.”
Night‑watch
I lay there, eyes fixed on the darkness where his side should have been, and forced my breath to stay shallow.
The hallway whispered with the faintest shuffling, like someone dragging socks across cheap carpet.
A soft, uneven exhale rose from the floorboards, muffled as if someone were holding their breath.
My hand brushed the nightstand; the phone glowed amber, charging, screen face‑down.
It was still, silent—no vibration, no call. He wasn’t answering anything.
I remembered the deadbolt that had sang its metallic click in 2008, the night a burglar tried the back door.
Now, in the black, that same click echoed: a brief, hesitant turn, the lock sliding, the door opening just enough to sigh, then closing.
The sound lingered, a memory of rusted hinges and fear, and then fell away into the night.
My heart thudded louder than the house’s old pipes.
I tightened the blankets around me and let the silence stretch, waiting for the next clue.
Down the pantry
The child‑like voice slipped down the stairs, thin as paper, humming a lullaby I hadn’t heard in decades.
I rose, feet cold on the hardwood, and followed the sound past the kitchen, toward the pantry.
Behind the stacked cans, the wall gave way with a soft squeak—a hidden door I never knew existed.
I pushed it open, the hinges protesting, and peered into a narrow crawlspace, the air stale with old laundry.
Rows of tiny, yellowed baby clothes lay folded, their collars frayed, the fabric smelling of mustard and mothballs.
At the far wall, a cracked photograph lay face up: a toddler in a red sweater, eyes wide, a name tag missing.
Beside it, a stack of letters bound with twine, each envelope addressed simply, “Daddy.”
The dates stared back: 1999, the year Tom turned thirty‑six.
A trembling hand lifted the top letter; the ink was still legible, a voice I’d never heard reaching out from the past.
Footsteps—Tom’s—reverberated from deeper within the crawlspace, then faded, swallowed by the darkness.
Section 5 – The Letter and the Confrontation
My hands trembled as I unfolded the yellowed paper.
The ink was faint, but the words were clear: “Tom, I’m Maya. I know you’re hurting. I’m here.”
My breath caught. A daughter? The name sank like a stone.
He had never mentioned an affair, never spoken of a child he’d hidden behind a decade of silence.
“She says she’s the one who whispered ‘Daddy loves you too’,” I read aloud, voice cracking.
The hallway seemed to close in, the faint child‑like echo that had haunted my nights now had a name.
I slipped the letter back into the cramped crawlspace and climbed the stairs, heart pounding against my ribs.
“Tom,” I called, the kitchen tiles cold under my bare feet.
He emerged from the bedroom, hair disheveled, eyes rimmed with the same tired red I had learned to read.
“Alma… I didn’t think you’d ever find out.”
His words were a low sigh, not a confession.
