The first time I saw Amelia pushing Sophie on the swings, sunlight catching in her auburn hair as she whispered, “I bet you could touch the clouds if you went just a little higher,” I dared to hope again. Two years after Sarah’s death, the hollow ache in my chest had finally begun to mend.
Our wedding was small—just family, the scent of gardenias thick in the air. When Amelia suggested we move into her ancestral home, with its wraparound porch and gabled attic, Sophie’s eyes lit up at the “princess room” with its canopy bed. “Can we paint it purple?” she’d begged. Amelia had squeezed my hand. “Our house now.”
The trouble began when I left for my first business trip.
“Have fun at your tea parties,” I’d chuckled, kissing Sophie’s forehead at the airport. But when I returned, my daughter clung to me like a lifeline, her small body trembling. “Daddy,” she whispered, “New Mom is different when you’re gone.”
The attic door—always locked. Strange thumps after midnight. Rules tighter than a drum: no ice cream, no messes, “Big girls clean alone.” That night, as Amelia slipped from our bed, I followed, my slippers silent on the creaking stairs.
The attic smelled of fresh paint and lavender. Moonlight spilled through the circular window, illuminating:
- A miniature tea set with gilded edges
- Watercolor supplies arranged by hue
- Sophie’s favorite books in a reading nook
Amelia spun around, a porcelain saucer in her hands. “I wanted it perfect before I showed you,” she admitted. Then came the confession: her own mother’s ghost haunting her parenting—“Everything had to be just so.”
We brought Sophie upstairs at dusk.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia knelt, tears glistening. “I forgot kids need messes more than perfection.”
Sophie’s gasp echoed as she spotted the teddy bear in a waistcoat. “For me?”
Later, chocolate smeared on their cheeks, I heard Sophie whisper: “New Mom’s not scary. She’s nice.”
Now, when I find them curled in the attic—Amelia reading Charlotte’s Web, Sophie’s head on her shoulder—I see Sarah’s ring glint on Amelia’s finger as she turns the page. Some love stories don’t end; they evolve.
And the attic? It stays unlocked.
