For months, I watched my wife, Natalie, receive mysterious letters. Every week, she’d burn them in the fireplace without a word. I tried to ignore it, to trust her, but curiosity and fear gnawed at me. One Wednesday, I intercepted the mail and found one of those letters. Inside was a demand: $10,000 or your husband finds out everything. Someone was blackmailing her.

The next day, I went to the park listed in the note. A man was pacing angrily and speaking on the phone. “Where are you, Natalie? Do you want your rich husband to find out?” I approached him and said, “I’m Natalie’s husband.” He froze. “I’m Michael, her ex,” he admitted. He wasn’t some lover—he was blackmailing her over something else. I paid him for the truth.

Michael handed me copies of the letters—photos and drawings from a little girl named Katie, who wrote, “Me and Mom.” My heart dropped. Natalie had a daughter. I confronted her that night. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a child?” I asked. She broke down. “I lost custody when I left Michael. I didn’t want you to leave me, too.”

I was stunned but realized the pain behind her silence. “We’ll hire a lawyer. You deserve to see her again,” I said. Natalie cried in my arms for what felt like forever.

A week later, we stood outside Michael’s home. Suddenly, a little girl ran out. “Mom!” she shouted, leaping into Natalie’s arms.

Watching them embrace, I knew—I already loved her too.