Not just creepy, impossible.
I turned the photograph over.
There was no postmark, no mailing label, just our address written by hand.
“Leon.”
He came downstairs.
“What is it?”
I handed him the photograph.
His face went pale.
“This wasn’t mailed.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the envelope.
“It was hand-delivered.”
My stomach dropped.
Someone had walked all the way to our front door. Someone had stood outside our house while we were inside with our newborn daughter.
Leon immediately checked our doorbell camera. The footage from 30 minutes earlier showed someone wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses placing the envelope on our porch.
The face remained hidden.
But just before leaving, the woman looked directly into the camera.
Then she smiled.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
Leon froze the image.
“I know that smile.”
“So do I.”
Then my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
This time, before I could answer, a text message appeared.
“You’re checking the camera now, aren’t you?”
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
“You’re checking the camera now, aren’t you?”
Leon grabbed my phone.
Another message appeared before either of us could respond.
“You should close the nursery curtains.”
Every hair on my arms stood up.
Leon ran to the front window.
The nursery faced the backyard. The curtains were still open, and our daughter was asleep in her bassinet.
No one was outside.
At least, no one we could see.
Leon closed every blind in the house before calling the police again. This time, they took the situation much more seriously.
An officer reviewed the doorbell footage and the text messages.
“Whoever this is wants you to know she’s watching,” he said.
“The messages are disturbing, but I need evidence placing her near your home or contacting you directly before I can build a stalking case. Keep every message. If she escalates, we’ll be ready.”
That night, neither of us slept.
The next morning, I replayed everything in my head.
The funeral flowers.
The phone call.
The silver charm.
The photograph.
The texts.
None of it answered the question that bothered me most.
How had Sheila known exactly when I gave birth?
Leon never posted on social media.
And neither had I.
Then I remembered Martha. She loved Facebook.
I opened her profile.
The answer was staring at me.
The day before, she’d proudly shared a picture of herself holding our daughter.
