I pulled it out and nearly dropped it.
Tiny jeans, dinosaur T-shirts, a pair of sneakers too small for Mark, too big for Anna.
I sat there on the floor, clutching the fabric, my chest heaving.
But it wasn’t just the clothes. In his jacket pocket, I found crumpled receipts. Kindergarten fees—from across town. Toys from stores we’d never shopped at and a grocery receipt full of food Anna had never touched.
Piece by piece, the picture came together. And it didn’t feel like imagination anymore.
By the time I laid everything out on the dining room table—the bill, the clothes, the receipts—my hands were trembling so badly I could barely breathe. I placed Anna’s drawing right in the center. Her little “brother,” smiling, as if he’d known all along.
That evening, I sat at the table in silence, the clock ticking like a countdown.
When Mark walked in, loosening his tie, he froze. His eyes locked on the evidence spread before him. His face drained of color.
“Linda…” he whispered.
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