The Day My Daughter Was Taken, My Husband Took His Illegitimate Son Shopping–When I Filed for Divorce, He Said: ‘That Child Was for You!
After my daughter’s death, I accidentally discovered that Luke Harrison already had another family.
The man who could barely bring himself to smile in front of our daughter was warm and affectionate toward another child–a boy.
In fact, on the day my daughter was kidnapped, Luke was out shopping and playing with his son.
The teacher’s calls went unanswered, and it wasn’t until days later that the police found her lifeless body.
Before we divorced, I confronted Luke in tears, demanding answers. It was only then, after a long silence, that he finally spoke.
“Faye,” he said, his voice low, “I’ve already lost one child. I can’t lose another.”
1
I found out about Luke’s other child the day I picked up my daughter’s ashes from the crematorium.
Driving home, I passed through a park and saw him–Luke, who was supposed to be at work.
He was holding hands with a little boy, a smile on his face so unfamiliar, so alien to me, that I almost didn’t recognize him.
I pulled over, watching from a distance as they walked toward a parked car.
And then, Luke lifted the boy into his arms. The child laughed sweetly, calling him “Dad.”
The sound snapped me out of my daze. I straightened my back, clutching the photo of my daughter in my hands.
The phone on the seat beside me lit up, then dimmed again. I stared at it, my fingers hovering over the screen, my mind frozen on the number I knew by heart.
I didn’t press call.
Through the window, I watched them embrace–a picture–perfect pair of father and son, so ordinary it made my chest ache.
A wave of frustration and bitterness rose inside me, sharp and suffocating.
I tossed the phone aside and stared at my hands, memories flooding my mind.
Luke had always been absent. He’d missed so many of our daughter’s birthdays, barely smiled in her presence, and rarely came home.
Even the day she was taken, it was because he had forgotten to pick her up.
That morning, knowing I had to leave for work, I’d reminded Luke over and over to pick up our daughter from preschool. I even sent him a message before leaving, just to be sure.
But when I returned home that evening, the message was still marked unread.
The teacher’s calls had gone unanswered. Our daughter had been left waiting alone, and in that moment of vulnerability, someone had taken her.
I didn’t know where Luke had been that day or what he was doing.
All I knew was that when I tried calling him that night, he didn’t answer. My messages went ignored.
The next morning, the police called to tell me that my daughter had been found–but it was too late.
In just one night, my little girl had been taken from me forever.
When I rushed home, the house was empty. Luke hadn’t even come back.
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9:15 AM
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Desperate and seething with grief, I went to his office, screaming at him, demanding answers.
He frowned, annoyed, and tried to deflect the blame.
“I told you I’ve been busy with work,” he said coldly. “I didn’t have time to pick her up.”
At the funeral, he seemed sad for a moment–just a moment. Then he went back to being the distant, indifferent man he’d always been.
He stopped coming home altogether after that, spending more nights away than at the house.
And yet, today, I had seen him playing with that little boy, his patience infinite, his smile soft and genuine.
The memory of my daughter’s shy voice echoed in my mind. Just days before she was taken, she’d asked him hesitantly, “Daddy, can we have dinner together?”
Luke had barely looked at her. His phone buzzed with a message, and his expression softened as he read it.
“Sorry,” he said, his tone firm but distant. “Daddy’s too busy. Maybe next time.”
But his “next times” had piled up, one after another, until they became never.
I sat in my car, watching them until their figures disappeared around the corner.
Finally, I started the engine and drove home.
