The moment we got home, everything felt perfect. The trip had been beautiful, with turquoise waters and sandy beaches, and Chris and I had no worries in the world. All we wanted to do was bask in the bliss of our wedding and the anticipation of our married life together.

As we walked through our front door, everything looked exactly as we had left it, down to the perfectly fluffed couch cushions. Except for the massive black box sitting in the hallway.

I stopped in my tracks.

“What is that?” I asked, the words hanging between us.

I would have thought that maybe it was a welcome-home gift from Chris, but the look on his face told me that it wasn’t.

Chris shrugged, frowning.

“That wasn’t here when we left,” he said.

A note rested on the hallway table beside it, the writing jagged and unfamiliar. I picked it up, feeling a chill in the air.

Lori, open this alone.

I handed it to Chris. We stared at the note, then the box, the weight of it settling into my stomach like a bad premonition.

“Are you sure it’s not from you?” I asked him.

“No, darling,” he said, his frown setting deeper.

“I don’t like this one bit,” I said.

“Well, let’s open it together,” Chris suggested, his tone calm but his eyes cautious. “Just in case it’s something dangerous, you know?”

I nodded. I trusted him completely. Whatever this was, we’d face it side by side. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re married, right?

Chris grabbed a knife from the kitchen and carefully cut through the tape. I held my breath as he pulled the flaps open. Inside was something soft—a huge stuffed bear, bigger than anything I’d ever seen, with a giant red heart sewn onto its chest.

We both blinked.

“Seriously?” Chris muttered, his tension evaporating.

I laughed.

“Someone must be messing with us,” he laughed.

“It’s a bit creepy, if I’m being honest,” I said.

“Yeah, let’s just throw it into the basement until we figure out what to do with it. Maybe we should donate it.”

But I wasn’t so sure. Something about the bear felt off. I stepped closer, eyeing the heart on its chest, where the words “Press Me” were embroidered in tiny script.

“I don’t know…” I hesitated, reaching toward the toy.

“Go ahead,” Chris urged when he saw the script. “It’s just a toy. Let’s see what it has to say.”

I pressed the heart, not knowing that our entire world was about to collapse.

A little girl’s voice echoed from the bear.

“Daddy? Daddy, are you there?”

Chris froze beside me. I turned to him, wanting to understand the change in his demeanor. His face was pale, his eyes wide.

The voice continued.

“Daddy, when are you coming to see me? I miss you.”

I felt my pulse hammering in my throat, making me nauseous. The room was suddenly too small. Chris wouldn’t even look at me.

“Daddy, will you come today? Will you come visit me? I’m still in the hospital…”

Then, another voice. A deeper, familiar voice cut through the silence.

“I’m busy, sweetheart. I’ll visit soon.”

It was Chris.

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.

“Chris?” I whispered. “That’s you? Really?”

The recording continued.

“Please, Daddy? It’s lonely and cold here. Mom is working…”

“I can’t, Kira,” Chris said. “I have things to do.”

There was a beep, and the recording stopped. But the conversation lingered in the air like smoke, suffocating us both. I couldn’t breathe.

“Is this… is this real or some horrible joke?” I asked flatly.

Chris stared at the floor, his hands shaking.

Who was this man? Had I really married a man who had an entire past that I didn’t know about?

“Lori, I don’t know what to say,” Chris started saying.

But I barely heard him. Next to the bear, something caught my eye. A white envelope tucked into the box. I grabbed it, ripped it open, and unfolded the letter inside.

I took a deep breath before reading the letter:

Lori,

Three years ago, your husband abandoned his sick daughter and myself. Our little girl had cancer. Chris promised to help, but one day, he disappeared. He just moved to another state, leaving us behind without a word. I worked multiple jobs, trying to pay for her treatments, which cost me precious moments with my child.

In the end, nothing was enough. The surgery didn’t work. The treatment didn’t work. She died, Lori. My child died at five years old. And all she had left was this toy he sent her before vanishing from our lives. I bet he doesn’t even remember.