A father's shocking discovery about his new wife: Daddy, new mom is different when you're gone

It had been two years since my wife’s passing, and I thought I was ready to move on. Sophie, my five-year-old daughter, had been so small when her mother passed.

I wanted her to have a stable, loving home again, so I remarried. Amelia, my new wife, seemed to be everything we needed. She was kind, patient, and understanding—at least, that’s how it seemed at first.

We moved into her large house, a property inherited from her late parents. Amelia promised it would be our new home, a place to build memories. At first, Sophie seemed to adjust well, playing in the spacious yard and getting along with Amelia. But after I returned from a week-long business trip, things seemed different.

Sophie clung to me tightly when I walked through the door, a rare display of affection. She whispered in my ear, her voice shaking with uncertainty, "Daddy, new mom is different when you're gone."

I bent down to her level, my heart sinking. "What do you mean, sweetheart?" I asked, trying to mask the worry in my voice.

Sophie looked at me, her eyes wide, and bit her lip. "She locks herself in the attic," she said. "I hear weird noises. It’s scary. She says I can't go in there... and she’s mean."

I froze, my stomach dropping. "Mean? What do you mean by that, Sophie?"

Sophie looked down at the floor, her small hands fidgeting with the edges of her shirt. "She makes me clean my room all alone. And she won’t give me ice cream, even when I'm good," Sophie said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I knelt down, my heart heavy. Amelia had always been so loving, so nurturing when I was around. But what Sophie was describing was far from what I had seen. A strange wave of unease washed over me. "Why don’t you tell me about this before?" I asked, my voice barely steady.

"I didn’t want to make you sad, Daddy," she said, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "I thought maybe you would stop loving me."

My heart broke for her. I hugged Sophie tightly, not knowing what to say. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

That night, after Sophie fell asleep, I lay awake, the weight of her words echoing in my mind. I tossed and turned, unable to ignore the creeping unease about Amelia’s behavior.

When I finally heard the soft creak of the floorboards from upstairs, I knew it was Amelia. She was headed for the attic again.

Without thinking, I got out of bed, my pulse quickening. I quietly made my way down the hall and up the stairs, moving carefully so I wouldn’t wake anyone.

At the top of the stairs, I saw Amelia’s shadow slipping toward the attic door. The faint light from the hallway barely illuminated her figure, but I knew it was her.

I stood frozen, unsure of what I was about to find. Amelia had always been so loving toward me. What could she possibly be hiding?

To my surprise, she didn’t lock the door behind her. The attic door creaked open as I tiptoed closer. My heart thudded in my chest as I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was filled with dust, boxes, and old furniture, but there was something strange about it. The walls were lined with old photographs of Amelia—some I had seen before, but others were strange.

She looked so different in these pictures, younger, almost unrecognizable. And the way her eyes stared out of the frames was unsettling, almost as if they were watching me.

I took another step into the room, and that’s when I saw it: an old, tarnished mirror standing against the far wall, covered in cobwebs. It was ornate, gilded with intricate designs that seemed out of place in such a dark, neglected room.

Amelia was standing before it, staring at her reflection. She was talking softly, almost to herself.

"Not enough, Amelia. Not enough yet," she muttered. Her voice was distant, almost hollow, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

I stepped closer, trying to make sense of what was happening. But just as I was about to speak, Amelia turned sharply, her eyes locking with mine. They were cold, empty, and unrecognizable.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice sharp and unsettling. "You shouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t understand."

I stood frozen, confusion and fear gripping me. "Amelia... what is this? What are you hiding?"

She took a step back, as if trying to put distance between us. "This... this is not what you think. You never should have come."

The way she said it sent a wave of dread through me. I realized then that I didn’t know my wife at all. She was hiding something, something deep and dark, and Sophie’s words made sense now. She wasn’t the woman I thought I had married. This wasn’t the home I had imagined for us.

I opened my mouth to speak, to ask her again what was going on, but she stopped me with a chilling look. "You don’t want to know the truth," she whispered.

My heart raced as I looked around the attic once more. I wanted to leave, to take Sophie and run, but I was paralyzed, unable to process everything happening.

"Amelia, we need to talk. We need to figure this out," I said, my voice trembling.

She shook her head slowly, stepping back toward the mirror. "You can’t fix this. You can’t fix me."

The atmosphere in the room seemed to change, growing heavier, colder. I could feel the weight of the air pressing down on me, like I was suffocating.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Amelia turned away from me and slowly walked toward the door. "You’ll understand soon enough," she muttered before disappearing down the stairs.

I stood there for a long time, my mind racing, unable to make sense of what had just happened. Amelia was hiding something terrible, and I didn’t know if I could ever trust her again.

But one thing was certain—I had to protect Sophie. No matter what happened, I would keep her safe.

I turned and left the attic, my heart pounding with questions I couldn’t yet answer.