He practically ushered a confused Ivy out of the kitchen before turning back to me. We sat at that table for hours after Ivy went to bed. We debated calling the police. We debated pulling her out of her school, packing our bags, and moving.

I felt wildly violated. The Maple Street Library was Ivy’s safe haven. It was where she went to escape into fantasy worlds, and the entire time, she had been a character in someone else’s twisted reality. Someone knew our daughter’s habits. Someone knew she bit her thumbnail when she read.

Someone knew exactly who her biological father was. I didn’t sleep a single wink that night. I sat in the living room in the dark, clutching that piece of paper, watching the clock tick toward morning. The next day, I didn’t go to work. I waited in the parking lot of the Maple Street Library, watching the staff arrive.

At exactly 9:00 AM, the heavy glass doors unlocked, and I marched straight inside. The library was empty except for a few elderly patrons reading the morning papers. The air smelled of old paper and floor wax, a smell I used to find comforting but now made me feel sick to my stomach.

I walked purposefully up to the main circulation desk. A woman in her early forties was quietly organizing a cart of returned books. She had soft, tired features, light brown hair pulled back in a messy clip, and a faded green cardigan. She looked entirely unremarkable.

“Excuse me,” I said. She looked up with a polite, customer-service smile. “Hi there, how can I help you to—” Her voice cut off instantly. Her eyes had locked onto the folded piece of paper in my hand. It was the only thing I was holding.

I watched as all the blood completely drained from her face, leaving her looking like a ghost. Her hands, which had been resting on a stack of hardcover books, began to tremble visibly. I knew. In my gut, in my bones, I knew exactly who she was.

The resemblance to Ivy wasn’t obvious at first glance, but the shape of her jaw, the slight tilt of her eyes—it was there. I stepped closer, leaning my weight over the wooden counter. “You’re Ivy’s birth mother,” I said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t deny it.

She didn’t call for security. She just gripped the edge of the book cart like it was the only thing keeping her standing. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes, spilling over her lashes before she could blink them away. “How long?” I demanded, my voice a harsh whisper.

I wanted to scream, but the library silence forced me to keep my rage contained. “How long have you been stalking my child?” “Three years,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I took this job just to be near her.” I felt physically ill. Three years.