The moment we got home, everything felt perfect. The trip had been beautiful, with turquoise waters and sandy beaches, and Chris and I had no worries in the world. All we wanted to do was bask in the bliss of our wedding and the anticipation of our married life together.

As we walked through our front door, everything looked exactly as we had left it, down to the perfectly fluffed couch cushions. Except for the massive black box sitting in the hallway.

I stopped in my tracks.

“What is that?” I asked, the words hanging between us.

I would have thought that maybe it was a welcome-home gift from Chris, but the look on his face told me that it wasn’t.

Chris shrugged, frowning.

“That wasn’t here when we left,” he said.

A note rested on the hallway table beside it, the writing jagged and unfamiliar. I picked it up, feeling a chill in the air.

Lori, open this alone.

I handed it to Chris. We stared at the note, then the box, the weight of it settling into my stomach like a bad premonition.

“Are you sure it’s not from you?” I asked him.

“No, darling,” he said, his frown setting deeper.

“I don’t like this one bit,” I said.

“Well, let’s open it together,” Chris suggested, his tone calm but his eyes cautious. “Just in case it’s something dangerous, you know?”

I nodded. I trusted him completely. Whatever this was, we’d face it side by side. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re married, right?

Chris grabbed a knife from the kitchen and carefully cut through the tape. I held my breath as he pulled the flaps open. Inside was something soft—a huge stuffed bear, bigger than anything I’d ever seen, with a giant red heart sewn onto its chest.

We both blinked.

“Seriously?” Chris muttered, his tension evaporating.

I laughed.

“Someone must be messing with us,” he laughed.

“It’s a bit creepy, if I’m being honest,” I said.

“Yeah, let’s just throw it into the basement until we figure out what to do with it. Maybe we should donate it.”

But I wasn’t so sure. Something about the bear felt off. I stepped closer, eyeing the heart on its chest, where the words “Press Me” were embroidered in tiny script.

“I don’t know…” I hesitated, reaching toward the toy.

“Go ahead,” Chris urged when he saw the script. “It’s just a toy. Let’s see what it has to say.”

I pressed the heart, not knowing that our entire world was about to collapse.

A little girl’s voice echoed from the bear.

“Daddy? Daddy, are you there?”

Chris froze beside me. I turned to him, wanting to understand the change in his demeanor. His face was pale, his eyes wide.

The voice continued.

“Daddy, when are you coming to see me? I miss you.”

I felt my pulse hammering in my throat, making me nauseous. The room was suddenly too small. Chris wouldn’t even look at me.

“Daddy, will you come today? Will you come visit me? I’m still in the hospital…”

Then, another voice. A deeper, familiar voice cut through the silence.

“I’m busy, sweetheart. I’ll visit soon.”

It was Chris.

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.

“Chris?” I whispered. “That’s you? Really?”

The recording continued.

“Please, Daddy? It’s lonely and cold here. Mom is working…”

“I can’t, Kira,” Chris said. “I have things to do.”

There was a beep, and the recording stopped. But the conversation lingered in the air like smoke, suffocating us both. I couldn’t breathe.

“Is this… is this real or some horrible joke?” I asked flatly.

Chris stared at the floor, his hands shaking.

Who was this man? Had I really married a man who had an entire past that I didn’t know about?

“Lori, I don’t know what to say,” Chris started saying.

But I barely heard him. Next to the bear, something caught my eye. A white envelope tucked into the box. I grabbed it, ripped it open, and unfolded the letter inside.

I took a deep breath before reading the letter:

Lori,

Three years ago, your husband abandoned his sick daughter and myself. Our little girl had cancer. Chris promised to help, but one day, he disappeared. He just moved to another state, leaving us behind without a word. I worked multiple jobs, trying to pay for her treatments, which cost me precious moments with my child.

In the end, nothing was enough. The surgery didn’t work. The treatment didn’t work. She died, Lori. My child died at five years old. And all she had left was this toy he sent her before vanishing from our lives. I bet he doesn’t even remember.

I felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest. My vision blurred, and the room tilted as if the ground was giving way beneath my feet.

I read on, allowing the words to slice me open.

I’m not writing this letter for revenge. I just want you to know the kind of man you’re with. If he could leave a dying child—his dying child—imagine what he’ll do to you when life gets tough. Will he leave you and your child, too? Attached are court documents. I’m filing for child support for the years he abandoned us. I’m not doing this to hurt you. But I wanted to warn you, woman to woman—this man isn’t who he says.

My mind swirled, and my nausea grew worse, but I forced myself to look at the papers inside the envelope. They were court documents, just like the letter said.

“Chris, is this true?” I asked.

But he was already backing away.

“Stand and talk to me!” I shrieked.

“I thought… I thought I could leave it all behind, Lori,” he said. “I swear, I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

“Leave it behind?” I spat the words at him, disbelief crashing over me. “You had a daughter. A sick daughter! And you just left her!”

He shook his head, as if trying to shake the truth away.

“I thought I could start over, Lori,” he said.

“You thought you could erase them? Pretend like they never existed? Just move on, like nothing happened?”

Visions of a sick child clouded my brain.

Chris’s silence answered my question. I felt disgust churn in my stomach. The man I had just married, the man that I thought I knew so well…

Now, he was nothing but a stranger.

“I can’t do this,” I said. “I can’t stay married to you. I can’t stay married to a man who could abandon his own child. For goodness’ sake, Chris. I can’t even look at you.”

“Lori, please,” he begged. “I can explain it all.”

“Just take your things and get out,” I said.

“Lori, you don’t mean that. We just got married. We can fix this. We can talk it through.”

“No,” I said. “You lied to me. You lied to her. You let that little girl die thinking that you didn’t care about her. I can’t be with someone like that… I can’t think about having a family with someone like that.”

Chris opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. He turned away, and I watched as he gathered his things in silence.

When he finally walked out the door, the house felt unnervingly quiet. I stood alone in the hallway, the black box still open, the stuffed bear sitting there like some twisted reminder of everything that had unfolded.

I made myself a cup of tea and went to sit outside on the porch. I couldn’t imagine that I was here, sitting and thinking about filing for divorce the next day.

I had been married for a solid 17 days. A part of me wondered if Chris and I could have moved past this…

But what would it say about me? That I didn’t see anything wrong with a man who left his family just because things were dark and difficult?

No. I couldn’t do that.

What would you have done?

If you enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |

My 4-Year-Old Son Got Extremely Upset Every Time My MIL Babysat Him – When I Found Out Why, I Got Revenge

Working as a nurse, Zoe often relied on her mother-in-law, Denise, to babysit Leo, her son. But when the little boy becomes visibly shaken by his grandmother’s presence, Zoe has to question the old woman’s actions, only to discover that Denise has a hidden agenda.

I had always thought that my mother-in-law, Denise, was a little overbearing, but I chalked it up to her just being protective of my son, her only grandson, Leo.

She was one of those women who carried herself with a certain authority that made you straighten your back and rethink your words. This had become more pronounced when Jeremy, her husband, passed away a few years ago, allowing Denise to reclaim her role as head librarian of the local library.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she asked Andrew, my husband, one day. “I have time now, so there’s no need to just have my part-time role there. And I can have my book club meetings at the library, too.”

“Okay, Mom,” Andrew said. “You do whatever you want.”

She wasn’t mean, exactly, but Denise had a way of making you feel small without even trying. But still, she lived two roads away and was always willing to babysit Leo whenever I had a shift at the hospital, and considering Andrew’s unpredictable hours at the law firm, Denise usually had to step in often.

“It’s what grandmothers are for, right, Zoe?” she would say whenever I asked her to come over.

And despite how her moods could shift without a moment’s notice, she was reliable and didn’t complain about it once.

But lately, Leo had been acting strange whenever Denise came over. At first, it was small things. He would cling to my leg a little longer than usual when I tried to leave or hide behind the couch when he heard her car pull up in the driveway.

I thought that my son was just going through a phase, or maybe even a bit of separation anxiety. I had seen it all the time with the kids in my ward, especially when they woke up and their parents weren’t in sight.

But then, last week, right before I was about to leave for a night shift, he started crying.

“I don’t want Grandma to stay with me!” he blurted.

Read the full story here.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.