I found a phone number and a cryptic note a few weeks ago, and it shattered everything. Every single thing I thought I knew, every foundation our life was built on, it just crumbled into dust right in front of me. I haven’t told anyone. Not a single soul. I just… I need to get it out.
It was a rainy Saturday, the kind where you actually want to stay inside and tackle that overflowing bookshelf. We’d been together for years, practically married, building a future brick by brick. His old books, some from his college days, were gathering dust in a forgotten corner. I picked up one, a worn copy of a poetry anthology, a book he swore was his favorite. He’d even gifted me a newer edition once, highlighting his favorite poems. It was sweet, sentimental.
As I dusted it, a small, folded piece of paper slipped from between the pages. It wasn’t a bookmark. It was too thick, too carefully folded. My heart gave a little skip. Probably an old receipt, I told myself, or a forgotten grocery list. But my fingers trembled as I unfolded it.
There it was. A string of numbers, handwritten in a script I didn’t recognize – not his, not mine. Below it, scrawled in the same unfamiliar hand, were three short lines: “Wednesday. The usual spot. 3pm. Daisies.”
DAISIES. My breath caught. Daisies. They were our flower. He’d proposed to me surrounded by them in a field, told me they reminded him of my innocent, hopeful spirit. My stomach dropped. No. It can’t be. My mind, usually so clear, swam with a sudden, icy dread.
I stared at the note, the numbers blurring. Cheating? It had to be. Why else would there be a secret note, a secret meeting time, and our flower? The anger simmered, then flared into a scorching heat. Who was this person? How long had this been going on? My entire world, our happy bubble, felt suddenly poisoned.
For days, the note burned a hole in my pocket. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep properly. Every touch from him felt like a lie. Every affectionate word, a betrayal. I watched him, searching his face for any tell, any flicker of guilt. He seemed… normal. Annoyingly normal. Laughing at my jokes, asking about my day, planning our next weekend getaway. The sheer audacity of it, if my suspicions were true, made me feel physically ill.
I have to know. The thought became an obsession. I knew I couldn’t confront him without proof, and frankly, I was terrified of what I’d find. So, one night, when he was deep asleep beside me, I slipped out of bed, heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. I sat in the living room, the cold glow of my phone illuminating the numbers. My hands shook so violently I almost dropped it.
I took a deep breath. Just dial it. See who answers. It could be nothing. Just a misunderstanding. But the terror in my gut told a different story.
I dialed. Each tone seemed to echo the frantic beat of my own pulse. One ring. Two rings. My breath hitched.
Then, a click.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice. Soft. Gentle. Not young, but not old either. My throat tightened. This is it.
“Uh… hello,” I croaked, trying to disguise my voice, make it sound like static. “Is… is he there?” I didn’t use his name. Just ‘he.’
A pause. A soft sigh. “Who is this?”
My mind went BLANK. What do I say? PANIC. “I’m… I’m a colleague,” I stammered, grabbing at the first believable lie. “Trying to reach him about a work emergency. It’s urgent.”
The woman sighed again, a sound that seemed laced with a peculiar weariness. “Oh, he’s probably with her. He always tries to make time for her on Wednesdays.”
HER? The word hit me like a physical blow. There it was. The confirmation. My vision swam. “Her? Who’s her?” I managed to push out, my voice thin, reedy.
Another hesitation. Longer this time. I could hear a faint, distant childish giggle in the background. My blood ran cold. A child? Did he have a secret child with this woman? The betrayal twisted inside me, even deeper, darker.
“Look,” the woman said, her voice dropping, gaining an edge of something I couldn’t quite place – pity? annoyance? “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re calling so late, but he comes every Wednesday for HIS DAUGHTER. It’s his visitation day. Don’t you know about Lily?”
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. The line went dead.
HIS DAUGHTER.
LILY.
A child. He had a child. Not a lover, not a fleeting affair. A whole, secret person. A life he’d lived, a family he’d had, before me, during me, alongside me, and never once breathed a word.
The distant giggle, the “diasies,” the “usual spot”… it all clicked into place, a horrifying puzzle solved. The daisies weren’t for a secret lover. They were for his daughter. His child, whose existence he’d hidden from me for years. Our future plans, our dreams, the house we were saving for, the children we talked about having… they were all built on a monumental lie.
I stumbled back to bed, not to sleep, but to lie awake in the suffocating darkness, staring at the ceiling. The man sleeping peacefully beside me, the man I loved, was a stranger. He carried this monumental secret, this entire, living person, this child, within him, and I knew nothing. The betrayal wasn’t just a fleeting moment of passion. It was a lifetime of deliberate omission. It was a fundamental lie that poisoned every single memory, every tender moment, every promise.
And the heartbreaking truth is, I still haven’t said anything. I don’t know how to. How do you confront someone about a child you didn’t know existed? How do you even begin to unravel a lie that deep? My world didn’t just crumble. It evaporated, leaving me standing in an empty space, forever haunted by the quiet, gentle voice of a woman I don’t know, asking me, “Don’t you know about Lily?”
