“Do not adopt that girl.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s wrong. There’s something off about her. I can feel it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m begging you, Claire. Find another child.”
I pulled my hand away. “I’m adopting Diane. She needs a home. And I need her.”
Eleanor’s face twisted with anger. “If you do this, I will fight you. I’ll call the agency. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. I’ll make sure you never pass a home study.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Watch me.”
She slammed the car door and stormed inside.
And she tried.
She called the agency and claimed I was mentally unfit. She hired a lawyer. She showed up at my house screaming that I was “trying to replace Dylan.”
But I didn’t back down.
Six months later, Diane officially became my daughter.
Eleanor cut us off completely.
I was hurt—but also relieved.
Diane brought life back into my home.
There was laughter again. Music. Just enough teenage sarcasm to remind me I wasn’t alone.
At first, she was guarded. But slowly, she opened up.
We cooked together. Watched movies. Planted flowers in the garden.
For the first time in months, I felt whole.
But there was one thing she never let go of.
An old, worn backpack.
She carried it everywhere.
“What’s in there?” I asked once.
“Just stuff,” she replied quickly.
“Can I see?”
“No. It’s private.”
I didn’t push.
Everyone deserves their secrets.
A year passed.
Last Tuesday, Diane went to a friend’s house for a sleepover.
I decided to clean her room.
When I picked up her backpack, I noticed how heavy it was. Curious, I unzipped it.
Inside were ordinary things.
A notebook. Pens. A worn paperback.
But deeper inside, I felt something stiff—taped into the lining.
Carefully, I peeled it free.
A crumpled Polaroid.
My hands started shaking before I even fully saw it.
It was Dylan.
Younger. Smiling that crooked smile I loved.
Beside him stood Eleanor.
And between them… a baby.
A baby with one hazel eye and one blue eye.
Attached was a folded note.
Eleanor’s handwriting.
I unfolded it.
“Diane, burn this after you read it. You’re old enough to know the truth. Dylan was your father. I’m your grandmother. But you can never tell Claire. If you do, you’ll destroy your father’s memory and break her heart. Stay silent. Be grateful she’s going to adopt you. And never, ever let her find this.”
I sat down on Diane’s bed, staring at the photo.
Dylan was Diane’s father.
My husband had a child.
A child he never told me about.
My thoughts spiraled—when? how? with who?
And Eleanor had known all along.
That’s why she tried to stop me.
I felt sick.
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