On Mother’s Day, a box on our porch labeled “For the kids” sparked my curiosity. I thought it was a sweet gift, but opening it revealed a secret so profound it rocked our family’s foundation.
Motherhood is my treasure. After three miscarriages, my daughter, Lily, four, and son, Owen, two, are my miracles. “Mom, watch me!” Lily called, attempting a lopsided cartwheel. “You’re amazing!” I cheered. Owen tugged my jeans. “Me too!” I hugged him. “You’ll be a pro!” These moments are my life’s joy. Lily and Owen make me more than just Emily—their mom is who I am.
My husband, James, handed me coffee, grinning. “How’s the acrobatics?” he asked, eyeing Lily. “Olympic-level,” I said, smiling. James is a hands-on dad. When Lily was born, he took time off, perfecting swaddling. With Owen, he tackled midnight cries. “Remember singing to Owen all night?” I asked, leaning on him. He laughed. “I ran out of lullabies!” I smiled. “You’re a wonderful dad.” He kissed my forehead. “We’re unstoppable together.”
James’s first marriage to Lisa was short, ending before we met. He said they parted without kids or conflict. Lisa was a forgotten name, barely mentioned. But that Mother’s Day, she reentered our lives. The morning was magical—Lily’s painted card, Owen’s “help” with muffins. We planned a river picnic. Around 10 a.m., the doorbell rang. James was upstairs with the kids, so I answered. No one was there, just a box wrapped in brown paper, labeled “For the kids.”
I called out, but the street was empty. Uneasy, I brought the box inside. Lily spotted it, thrilled. “Presents?” James came down, curious. “Who’s it from?” The note’s careful handwriting was unfamiliar. “No idea,” I said, forcing cheer. I opened the box, finding a carved dollhouse, a puzzle Owen wanted, a bear for Lily, and a blanket with their names stitched. Who knew their names? James looked as lost as I felt.
He found an envelope: “To James and Family. From Lisa.” My chest tightened. “Your ex?” I asked. James nodded, pale. “I haven’t spoken to her in years.” Lily asked, “Who’s Lisa?” James said, “An old friend.” He opened the letter, read a line, and sat heavily, speechless. “James?” I whispered, scared. He handed me the letter. As the kids played, I read, my heart pounding.
Lisa wrote she was pregnant when they divorced, keeping it secret. Her daughter, Mia, had James’s eyes but died at two in a crash caused by a drunk driver. Diagnosed with terminal cancer, Lisa sent Mia’s toys to Lily and Owen, knowing their names. She thanked me for being their mom. Tears fell as I finished. James had a daughter he’d never known, now gone.
James stepped outside, sobbing. I sent the kids upstairs and joined him, holding him silently. “I had a daughter,” he whispered. “I missed her.” I cried too. “I’m so sorry.” The kids’ laughter inside contrasted our pain. That night, we sat with the letter, hands joined. “I’ll tell them about Mia,” I said. James nodded. “She was real.” I stored the letter with the toys, a piece of our family’s truth for Lily and Owen someday.
