Part 2: A month ago, I gave birth to my daughter. Soon after that, I found out that every night my husband was secretly bringing my b/rea/st milk to his mother’s house. I chose to quietly follow him one night. What I saw there shook me to the core.

The following Friday was quiet and crisp, the first chill of winter settling over the town. Tyler had gone to Dorothy’s house to help install deadbolts and security cameras, leaving me alone at home with our daughter, Clara.

The house was peaceful. Clara had just nursed and was sleeping soundly in her crib. I made myself a cup of chamomile tea, letting the warm steam soothe the lingering exhaustion in my bones. For the first time since giving birth, I felt truly safe.

Around nine o’clock, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Tyler:

*Wrapping up at Ma’s now. Installing the final outdoor sensor. Picked up your favorite pie from the bakery. See you in fifteen minutes, my love.*

I smiled, typing back a quick heart emoji, and set the phone down.

A sudden thump came from the front porch.

I froze, tea mug hovering near my lips. The sound wasn't the gentle rustle of the wind or a stray cat. It was heavy, deliberate—the sound of boot leather scuffing against wet wood.

My pulse spiked instantly. I slowly walked to the front window, keeping behind the lace curtains, and peered out into the driveway.

The driveway was empty. Tyler wasn't home yet.

Then, the soft, metallic sound of the front doorknob turning echoed through the quiet foyer.

*Click. Click.*

The door was locked with the heavy deadbolt, but the knob rattled violently in its brass housing. I backed away, my breath hitching in my throat, ready to sprint upstairs to Clara's nursery and dial 911.

Suddenly, the rattling stopped.

A white envelope slid slowly through the mail slot at the bottom of the door, landing with a faint slap against the hardwood floor.

I waited, listening to the heavy footsteps slowly descend the front steps and disappear into the night.

With trembling legs, I crept toward the door. I picked up the sealed white envelope. There was no stamp, no return address—only my name written in sharp, jagged black ink: *BRENDA.*

I tore open the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper and an old, grainy photograph.

The photograph showed Tyler standing on a crowded street corner five years ago, his arm wrapped tightly around a woman I had never seen before in my life. She was laughing, radiant, and unmistakably heavily pregnant.