It began with a family supper.
Brian, Tom’s best friend, was coming over, as he had done so many times before. Brian and Tom had been best friends since middle school, almost like brothers.
Brian was present for every large and small event in our life. He wasn’t just a buddy; he was family.
Our daughter, Emily, adored him. She’d dash to the door every time he came by, literally jumping with delight. He was continually laughing and scooping her up.
That night seemed the same—just pizza, laughter, and catching up. Tom was running late from work, so I asked Brian to pick up the lunch. He entered with a wide grin, holding two pizza boxes in one hand and a small gift bag in the other.
Inside there was a little stuffed puppy. Emily’s eyes brightened up.
We settled in for dinner, discussing minor details. Brian cracked his typical jokes, and we all laughed. Emily was glued to his side, asking him questions about everything.
As we were finishing up, I saw we were out of drinks. Tom had still not arrived, so I turned to Brian.
“Do you mind staying with Emily for a few minutes while I run to the store?”
“Of course not. Go on, we’ll be just fine.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I said, grabbing my keys. I knew Emily was in good hands. Brian was family, after all.
When I returned, I noticed Brian by the door, looking…different. He was almost nervous.
“I just—uh, something came up. Gotta run. Tell Tom I’ll catch him later.”
I felt a peculiar chill and brushed it aside.
After that night, everything changed. Emily, my vivacious and talkative daughter, went silent.
“Emily, honey,” I asked gently, “are you mad about something? Did something happen with Brian?”
She only stared at me, her large, sorrowful eyes welling up with tears, and shook her head before going to her bed.
By the third day, I realized it wasn’t a phase. My heart broke as I saw my once vibrant little kid retreat into herself.
We took her to the pediatrician, who did all of her tests, including hearing and vision.
Then we went to a child therapist, but after a few sessions, the therapist drew us aside and said they couldn’t figure out why Emily had gone silent.
Weeks slipped into months, and Emily had yet to return to her former self.
Emily finally broke her silence one morning, five months later.
“Will you leave me there forever?” she whispered, barely above a breath.
Her lower lip quivered. “Brian said… he said I’m not really yours. He said you’re going to leave me like my real parents did.”
“We love you more than anything. Brian was wrong to say those things. We would never leave you. Ever.”
That night, when Tom got home, I told him everything. He was enraged and saddened beyond words, but we were both more concerned with Emily’s rehabilitation.
Emily started talking again, gently at first, but I could tell she was still afraid. I tried contacting Brian. He didn’t respond.
Then, one evening, I received an unexpected message from him.
“Can we meet? I need to explain.”
“I’m sorry,” he said “I never meant to hurt her… or you.”
“I found out I was adopted that day,” he said, looking down. “Right before I came over. My parents never told me. My whole life, I thought they were my real parents. And then, just like that, I find out they’re not. It broke me.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. She was just so innocent, so trusting. I don’t know why I said it.”
I left the meeting feeling hollow, heavy with grief that I couldn’t escape.
Since then, he has not contacted me again. Emily is doing better, but there is still a part of her that hesitates and wonders.
