I hated myself for thinking it.
But I couldn’t stop.
For weeks, I tried to ignore it. Tried to convince myself I was being paranoid.
But the distance between us kept growing.
Finally, one afternoon, I did something I never thought I would do.
I bought a small voice recorder.
When Daniel came home, I slipped it into his briefcase—the one he never left behind.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it.
I told myself I’d regret this.
But I did it anyway.
The next evening, I retrieved it.
I locked myself in the bathroom, sat on the floor, and pressed play.
At first, it was just background noise—traffic, muffled footsteps, a door closing.
Then voices.
Daniel’s voice.
And another man’s.
“Everything with Lilu is fine,” Daniel said.
My breath stopped.
“My wife has no idea and doesn’t know who she really is. And that’s how it’s going to stay.”
My vision blurred.
The other man sounded tense.
“But you’re lying to everyone. She deserves to know the truth about WHY you adopted Lilu. You insisted on adopting her because she—”
A loud noise interrupted him.
The recording cut out.
I don’t remember standing up.
I don’t remember unlocking the door.
I just remember staring at my reflection in the mirror, my face pale and unfamiliar.
Who she really is.
The words echoed over and over.
That night, I lay beside Daniel, pretending to sleep.
But my mind was screaming.
Was Lilu his child?
The possibility made my stomach twist.
But how? The records said she was abandoned at birth.
Unless…
