When I came home, the house was silent.

No music drifting from the radio. No off-key humming from the kitchen. Just the tick of the wall clock and the low hum of the refrigerator, sounds that felt suddenly too loud.

The cake sat half-finished on the counter. Dark frosting streaked the bowl like someone had stopped mid-motion. The knife rested against the sink, and a single balloon floated near the ceiling, its ribbon caught on a cabinet handle.

“Jess?” I called, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

Nothing answered.

I walked down the hall, my limp more noticeable now that my heart was racing. The bedroom door stood open. Jess’s side of the closet was empty—her floral hangers swaying slightly, her suitcase gone, her shoes missing. My chest tightened as if the air had thickened around me.

Evie was asleep in her crib, one hand curled around the head of her stuffed duck, her breathing soft and even. Beside her lay a folded note in Jess’s familiar handwriting.

Callum,
I’m sorry. I can’t stay anymore.
Take care of our Evie. I made a promise to your mom, and I had to keep it. Ask her.
—J.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the paper, unable to make sense of the words. The house still smelled like chocolate frosting. Just an hour earlier, music had been playing. Jess had been in the kitchen with her hair pinned up, a smear of icing on her cheek as she worked on Evie’s birthday cake.

“Don’t forget,” she’d called, smiling faintly, “she wants the doll with the glittery wings.”

“I’ve got it covered,” I’d said, tapping my leg to wake the nerves before heading out. “Giant, sparkly, probably terrifying.”

Evie had giggled. Everything had felt ordinary. Safe.

Five minutes after reading the note, I buckled Evie into her car seat and drove to my mother’s house. She opened the door before I knocked, her face draining of color the moment she saw me.

“She did it?” she whispered.

“What did you do?” I asked, my voice shaking. “What did you make her promise?”

Inside, the kitchen light was on. Aunt Marlene stood by the counter, dish towel in hand. One look at my face and she froze.

My mother led us into the living room and sat down heavily.

“After you came back from rehab,” she began, twisting her hands, “Jess came to me. She was overwhelmed. You were in pain, angry, hurting in ways she didn’t know how to reach.”

I stayed silent.

“She told me she’d been with someone while you were gone,” my mother continued. “One night. A mistake. She found out she was pregnant the day before your wedding.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

“She didn’t know if Evie was yours,” my mother said quietly. “And I told her the truth would destroy you. I told her to build the life anyway. To let Evie be your second chance.”

Aunt Marlene inhaled sharply. “Addison,” she said, stunned, “that wasn’t protection. That was control.”

I looked down at Evie, warm and trusting in my arms, and felt something crack inside me.

“She left her child,” I said, my voice steady despite the ache. “Whatever she felt, that doesn’t excuse walking away.”

My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “She said she couldn’t take Evie from you. She said Evie looks at you like you’re the whole world.”

“And you let a promise replace the truth,” I said.

Aunt Marlene grabbed her purse and paused at the door. “I’m ashamed of you, Addison,” she said softly, before leaving.

That night, after Evie fell asleep beside me, I sat in the dark bedroom, listening to her breathe. The house felt hollow without Jess’s quiet presence. On impulse, I opened my nightstand drawer. Tucked inside a paperback was another letter.

Callum,
If you’re reading this, I couldn’t say it out loud. I was scared. I don’t even remember his name. I was lost, and then you came home, and I wanted to believe the past didn’t matter.
Your mother told me you’d fall apart if you knew. I believed her.
But the lie grew. It followed me everywhere. I watched you become a father so full of patience and love, and I couldn’t live inside the question anymore.
Please protect her. Let her stay little. I left because staying would have broken what was still whole.
I love you. Just not the way I used to.
—J.

The next morning, Evie stirred against my chest.

“Where’s Mommy?” she asked sleepily.

“She had to go somewhere,” I said, brushing her hair back. “But I’m here.”

Later, as I peeled off my prosthetic, my leg aching and raw, Evie climbed beside me.

“Is it sore?” she asked.

“A little.”

She leaned close and blew on it gently, just like Jess used to do. Then she placed her duck beside my leg so it could rest too.

We stayed there for a long time.

That afternoon, sunlight filled the living room as Evie played with her doll. I braided her hair slowly, my hands unsure but careful.

“Mommy might not come back for a while,” I said quietly. “But we’ll be okay.”

She nodded without hesitation. “I know. You’re here.”

We were smaller now. Quieter. But we were still a family.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.