It never occurred to me that a garage sale would unravel my life. That morning was ordinary—sunlight, a soft breeze, and my mother-in-law Margaret’s yard lined with mismatched trinkets. I browsed absentmindedly until my heart stopped. On a table lay the pink crochet blanket I had made for Daisy, my daughter I believed had died at birth.
Hands trembling, I confronted Margaret. She dismissed it coldly, insisting it was “just a blanket.” But I knew. That blanket had been meant for Daisy’s grave. My world tilted.
When Aaron appeared, guilt shadowed his face. I demanded answers. His words broke me: “Daisy never died. Margaret made us believe she did.”
The truth poured out—Margaret had taken Daisy, convincing Aaron it was for the best. Daisy had been raised in secret by his sister, Ellen. Years of grief, distance, and emptiness were built on lies.
I clutched the blanket, my heart torn between rage and hope. Daisy was alive. Nothing mattered more now than finding her—and reclaiming the years stolen from me.
