After Mark died in a tragic car accident, I was left to raise our sick son, Caleb, alone. Life became a blur of hospital bills, double shifts, and quiet grief. Caleb kept asking when Daddy would come home. I had no answer—only tears I hid in the shower.
Then, weeks later, I got a text. Just one word: “Hi.” From Mark’s number.
My heart stopped. I replied, trembling: “The man who owned this phone is dead.” The response came instantly: “No.”
I traced the number. What I discovered shattered me.
Mark hadn’t died alone. He’d been living a double life. The number belonged to a woman—someone he’d been seeing for months. She found his phone among his things and, in her grief, reached out. She didn’t know about me. Or Caleb.
The truth was brutal. Mark had been supporting two families. Two lives. Two lies.
I felt betrayed, hollowed out. But I looked at Caleb—his tiny hands, his hopeful eyes—and knew I had to choose strength over sorrow.
I told the woman everything. She cried. I cried. We mourned the same man, differently.
In the end, I didn’t get closure. But I got clarity. And that was enough to begin healing.
