A box left on our porch on Mother’s Day piqued my curiosity, marked “For the kids.” I expected a fun gift, but what I found inside stopped me cold—a truth that shook our family to its core.
Being a mom is my everything. After two painful miscarriages, my son, Noah, three, and daughter, Ava, one, are my miracles. “Mama, see!” Noah yelled, trying a shaky cartwheel. “Awesome, buddy!” I cheered. Ava toddled over, grabbing my hand. “Me, Mama!” I lifted her, kissing her nose. “You’re next!” These everyday joys mean the world. Noah and Ava are my purpose, transforming me from just Laura to their mom.
My husband, Michael, brought tea, smiling. “What’s the performance?” he asked, watching Noah. “Broadway-worthy,” I said, sipping. Michael’s a devoted dad. When Noah arrived, he took leave, learning diaper tricks. With Ava, he handled sleepless nights. “Remember pacing with Ava’s colic?” I asked, nudging him. He chuckled. “I sang every song I knew!” I grinned. “You’re a great dad.” He hugged me. “We’re a perfect pair.”
Michael’s first marriage to Sarah ended before we met. He said it was short, no kids, no drama. Sarah was a faint shadow, rarely mentioned. But that Mother’s Day, she returned. The day began with Noah’s scribbled card and Ava’s “help” with breakfast. We planned a lake picnic. Mid-morning, the doorbell chimed. Michael was bathing the kids, so I checked. No one was there, only a box in brown paper with a note: “For the kids.”
I called out, but the street was silent. Uneasy, I set the box on the table. Noah ran in, excited. “Toys?” Michael joined us, confused. “Who sent it?” The note’s tidy script was unfamiliar. “No clue,” I said, smiling for the kids. I opened the box, revealing a dollhouse, a train set Noah loved, a puzzle for Ava, and a blanket with their names embroidered. Who knew their names? Michael’s frown deepened.
He pulled out an envelope: “To Michael and Family. From Sarah.” My heart sank. “Your ex-wife?” I asked. Michael nodded, pale. “I haven’t heard from her in a decade.” Noah asked, “Who’s Sarah?” Michael said, “A friend.” He opened the letter, read briefly, and collapsed into a chair, stunned. “Michael?” I whispered, alarmed. He gave me the letter. As the kids played, I read, my breath catching.
Sarah revealed she was pregnant during their divorce, hiding it. Her son, Lucas, had Michael’s laugh but died at three in a crash caused by a reckless driver. Sarah, devastated, later learned she had terminal cancer. She sent Lucas’s toys to Noah and Ava, knowing their names. She thanked me for being their mom. Tears streamed down my face. Michael had a son, lost forever.
Michael went outside, crying. I sent the kids to play and joined him, holding him. “I had a son,” he sobbed. “I never knew.” I wept too. “I’m so sorry.” The kids’ giggles echoed inside, a bittersweet contrast. That night, we sat silently, the letter between us. “I’ll tell them about Lucas,” I said. Michael nodded. “He existed.” I kept the letter with the toys, a story for Noah and Ava to know one day.
