It began, as all the sweetest things do, with her. My daughter. My world. She was three, a tiny whirlwind of curiosity and joy, and she had this adorable habit of counting everything. Fingers, toes, blueberries on her plate, the squirrels in the yard.
“One, two, three!” she’d chirp, holding up plump little fingers. It was the cutest thing. We’d play games with it. “How many kisses for Mommy?” “Five!” “How many hugs for Daddy?” “Ten!” Our house was always filled with her bright, numerical proclamations. My heart swelled, truly, every single day. I had everything I ever wanted: a loving partner, a beautiful, vibrant child, and a home that felt like a sanctuary.
Then, the counting started to get… different.It began subtly. We’d be snuggled on the couch, just the three of us, watching a movie. She’d point to us, “Mommy, Daddy, me!” then she’d pause, her brow furrowed in concentration. “One, two, three…” she’d count again, her gaze drifting to an empty spot beside my partner. “…and her! Four!”
Diane Ladd attends the SAG-AFTRA Foundation “Isle of Hope” screening and Q&A in Los Angeles on December 16, 2022 | Source: Getty Images
I chuckled, pulling her closer. Oh, a new imaginary friend! I thought. How sweet. I remember asking her, “Who’s ‘her,’ sweetie?” She’d just shrug, a tiny, mysterious smile playing on her lips. “She’s just… her!”
It became a regular occurrence. During breakfast, she’d carefully count the place settings. “Mommy’s plate, Daddy’s plate, my plate… and her plate!” Sometimes she’d pick up a spare teacup and place it at an empty spot at the table. I’d laugh it off, “Looks like ‘her’ is joining us for tea!” My partner would smile, a little too quickly, and divert her attention to her toast. He’s probably humoring her, just like me.
But the details started to get unnervingly specific. “She likes the yellow cup, Mommy!” or “She says Daddy reads her the dinosaur book sometimes, too!” I’d feel a flicker of something unsettling, a cold whisper of doubt, but I’d squash it down. Children have vivid imaginations. It’s harmless. I told myself this so often it became a mantra. Just her little mind making things up.
My partner had been working late a lot. Big project, he’d said. Long hours, important deadlines. He’d come home exhausted, sometimes smelling faintly of a perfume that wasn’t mine. Just the office, probably a coworker. I was so good at rationalizing. So good at not seeing.
One evening, I walked into her room to find her tucked into bed, but she wasn’t sleeping. She was whispering intently to the empty air beside her. “No, you told me not to tell Mommy! It’s our secret!” My heart STALLED. The playful dismissal I’d used as a shield for months shattered in that instant. My blood ran cold. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice light. “Who are you talking to, sweet pea?” She looked at me, wide-eyed, then at the empty space beside her. “Just… her. She said it’s a secret, you promise?”
I didn’t answer. I just hugged her, tighter than usual, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. The whispers, the late nights, the vague excuses, the perfume, his phone always face down, his quick, guarded glances… I began to see them all, not as isolated incidents, but pieces of a horrifying puzzle. My partner, my sanctuary, my everything. Was I wrong about him?
The next day, the chill in the air was palpable. I couldn’t bring myself to confront him. The fear of what I might uncover was paralyzing. I watched him. Every move, every word, analyzed. He seemed normal, perhaps a little more attentive to me, almost too attentive. Is he trying to overcompensate? Or am I just losing my mind?
Diane Ladd, Bruce Dern, and their daughter Laura Dern attend the Hollywood Walk of Fame star ceremony honoring all three on November 1, 2010 | Source: Getty Images
Later that afternoon, we were driving. Just the three of us. The sun was warm, the radio playing a happy tune. My daughter, strapped into her car seat in the back, started her counting again. It started innocently enough. “One… two… three…” she said, pointing to each of us. My partner smiled, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. My stomach clenched.
Then she paused. Her little finger, usually so quick and decisive, hovered. Her gaze fixated on something outside the window. We were driving past a small park, the kind with a bright red slide and swings that touched the sky. Children were playing, their laughter echoing in the breeze.
And then she spoke, her voice clear as a bell, full of that innocent, unwavering conviction that only a child possesses.
“Daddy!” she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. Her finger pointed straight ahead, towards the park entrance. “Look! There she is! And the little girl! She told me you pick them up after school sometimes!”
My partner’s head snapped towards the park. His face, which had been smiling just moments before, drained of all color, turning a ghastly shade of white. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles were stark.
I followed her gaze. There, walking hand-in-hand out of the park, was a woman with long, dark hair, and beside her, a little girl. A little girl with the exact same eyes as my partner. The woman looked up, her gaze meeting his, and in her eyes, I saw not surprise, but a quiet, weary acceptance. As if this moment, this painful reveal, had been a long time coming.
The car swerved slightly. My partner said nothing, just stared straight ahead, his jaw locked. But it was too late. The silence in the car was deafening, suffocating. MY WORLD SHATTERED. My daughter, oblivious to the seismic shift she had just triggered, began to count again, her voice bright and cheerful. “One, two, three… and four! Daddy has four people he loves!”
Diane Ladd, Laura Dern, and Bruce Dern attend the “Citizen Ruth” premiere in West Hollywood on November 21, 1996 | Source: Getty Images
The “someone we couldn’t see” wasn’t an imaginary friend. It wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t even just another woman. It was a secret life. A hidden family. Another child. And my own daughter, in her pure, unadulterated innocence, had counted them all along. And I, the trusting, oblivious wife, had chosen to see nothing until she forced my eyes open.
