My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t know a Maya. The room spun, and I felt sick. My mind raced to the worst possible conclusion: he had a second family. The “solo retreat” was a lie. He was with her.
I grabbed the brush and the sock, ready to storm downstairs and end my marriage right then and there. But as I turned toward the door, my husband was already standing in the frame.
He wasn’t smiling. He looked terrified. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying.
“I can explain,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“Explain having a secret child?” I snapped, my voice shaking with rage. “Who is Maya?!”
He didn’t get angry. He just took a shaky breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pamphlet for a foster-to-adopt agency.
“She’s not a secret child,” he said softly. “Do you remember the little girl from the group home we volunteered at last Christmas? The one who wouldn’t let go of your hand?”
I froze. I remembered her perfectly. We had talked about adopting her, but we were told the process was impossible and the waiting list was years long. I had forced myself to stop thinking about it to protect my heart after our struggles with infertility.
“The ‘retreat’ was a final interview and an out-of-state court hearing,” he said, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t want to tell you in case the judge said no. I couldn’t bear to break your heart again if we couldn’t bring her home. But… the judge said yes.”
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway. “She’s in the car. She was too scared to come in because she thought you might not remember her.”
The anger vanished instantly, replaced by a sob that ripped through my chest. I dropped the laundry and ran past him, out the front door, to meet our daughter.
