I took a step closer, completely entranced and horrified all at once. The little girl noticed my shadow and looked up from her coloring book. She stared at me for a long moment, tilting her head.
“Are you Aunt Linda?” she asked, her voice small and sweet.

My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. Aunt Linda.
“Did Daddy finally let you out of the hospital?” she continued innocently. “He said you were very sick in your head and that’s why we couldn’t ever meet you.”

Tears instantly blurred my vision. He hadn’t just hidden a child from me. He had hidden me from them, crafting a sick, twisted narrative to explain away my existence. He painted his wife as a mentally unstable sister locked away in a facility, just so he could live his double life without raising suspicion.

Before I could even formulate a response to the sweet child sitting before me, the restroom door opened. A woman walked out, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She was beautiful, with kind eyes and an exhausted smile. She looked at the little girl, then looked at me.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked politely.
“I…” I choked on the words. “I’m Linda.”
The woman’s polite smile instantly vanished, replaced by a look of profound terror and confusion. She instinctively stepped in front of the little girl, shielding her. “Marcus said you weren’t allowed to leave the facility,” she whispered harshly, her eyes darting around as if looking for security. “How did you find us? If you come near my daughter, I will call the police.”

The absolute absurdity of the situation finally broke me. I let out a dry, humorless laugh, tears spilling down my cheeks.
“I’m not his sister,” I said, my voice finally finding its strength.

I reached into my purse, pulled out my wallet, and retrieved my driver’s license, alongside a photo of me and Marcus on our wedding day. I held them out to her. “I’m his wife. We’ve been married for eight years. We live in a four-bedroom house in Phoenix, and until two days ago, I thought we were trying to start a family of our own.”