“You both look exhausted.”
Leon told her everything.
The flowers.
The card.
The phone call.
Her expression slowly changed from confusion to disbelief.
“Sheila?”
“You remember her?”
“Of course I do.”
She sat down heavily.
“I haven’t heard that name in years.”
“Neither had we.”
Martha shook her head.
“I honestly thought she’d finally moved on.”
“So did we.”
She looked at the sleeping baby.
“I’m so sorry.”
For a few days, nothing happened.
I began convincing myself that Sheila had simply wanted one final chance to frighten us.
Maybe that had been enough.
Then our mail arrived.
Inside was a large padded envelope with no return address.
Leon carefully opened it.
Inside was our daughter’s professional newborn photograph.
The hospital had taken it the morning after she was born.
Someone had cut Leon completely out of the picture.
Only the baby and I remained.
Attached was another card.
“This is how it should have been.”
I looked at Leon.
“How did she get this?”
The hospital hadn’t even emailed us the digital copies yet.
We called immediately.
After an internal review, the hospital assured us no employee had released the photograph.
Two days later, the photography company discovered someone had called pretending to be Leon, correctly answered several verification questions, and ordered an early printed proof before it was ever emailed to us.
Sheila hadn’t hacked the system.
She had manipulated people.
That night, Leon finally told me everything about Sheila.
Not because he’d been hiding it, but because neither of us had believed it still mattered.
They had dated for less than two years. The relationship had become increasingly unhealthy.
Whenever Leon tried spending time with friends, Sheila accused him of abandoning her.
Whenever he talked about the future, she treated every plan as a promise.
Eventually, he ended it.
Three months later, he met me.
“There wasn’t any overlap,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“I never cheated on her.”
“I know.”
He looked exhausted.
“I honestly thought she’d eventually build a happy life.”
Instead, she’d disappeared, or so everyone believed.
A week later, my maternity leave settled into something resembling routine.
Feed the baby.
Nap whenever possible.
Repeat.
Then another package arrived.
Inside was an old photograph.
Leon and Sheila.
Taken years before we met.
Across the picture, someone had written one sentence in neat black ink.
“She stole everything.”
I stared at the words.
Something suddenly felt wrong.
