My five-year-old daughter, Tessa, and I moved into my new wife Laura’s house.

She seemed kind and patient—at first. One evening, Tessa hugged me tightly and whispered,

“Daddy, new Mom is different when you’re gone.” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “She locks

herself in the attic,” Tessa said. “I hear weird noises. It’s scary. She says I can’t go in.

And… she’s mean. I had noticed Laura going into the attic but assumed it was just her space.

That night, I quietly followed her upstairs. She slipped into the attic without turning on any

lights, and I heard shuffling. My heart pounded. The door wasn’t locked. I opened it. Laura stood

facing a large trunk. “I didn’t know you were awake,” she said, startled. “What’s going on here?”

She swallowed. “I come up here to think. The attic has things from my parents. Some of it is painful.”

I exhaled. No dark secret—just grief. “Did you do something to make Tessa think you’re mean?” Tears

filled Laura’s eyes. “I was trying to set rules—picking up toys, no sweets before bed. I see now I

might have come off as harsh.” “She’s five,” I said gently. “She just wants to feel safe.” Laura nodded.

“I want to do better.” The next day, Laura explained to Tessa, “The attic makes me sad sometimes,

but I love you.” Tessa’s eyes widened. “You… love me?” Laura nodded. “Very much. Can we try again?”

Tessa hugged Laura without hesitation. Over the next weeks, things changed. Laura invited Tessa into

the attic, shared stories, and softened her rules. Tessa tried harder, and we found our rhythm as a

family. One afternoon, Tessa drew a picture of us holding hands. “Daddy, I love new Mom,” she said.

Healing takes time, but with open hearts, love can grow