I REMARRIED AFTER MY WIFE’S DEATH.

— WHEN I RETURNED FROM A BUSINESS TRIP, MY DAUGHTER SAID: “DADDY, THE NEW MOM IS DIFFERENT WHEN YOU’RE NOT HERE.”

Two years had passed since my wife’s death when I decided to try again. The pain was still there, but I needed to move forward — for myself and, above all, for Sophie, my five-year-old daughter. That’s when I met Amelia.

She seemed to be everything we needed: kind, patient, always smiling. Not long after, we got married and moved into the large house she had inherited from her late parents. The house was old and spacious, with long hallways and an attic that was always kept closed. Still, during the first few months, everything seemed perfect. Amelia took care of Sophie, cooked meals, and read bedtime stories. I truly believed I had made the right choice.

Until that night.

I had just returned from a week-long business trip. As soon as I walked through the door, Sophie ran to me and hugged me tightly — tighter than usual for a child her age. She buried her face in my chest and whispered, her voice trembling:

“Daddy… the new mommy is different when you’re not here.”

A chill ran down my spine.

I knelt in front of her, trying to stay calm.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

She hesitated, glancing around as if afraid someone might hear her.

“She locks herself in the attic,” she whispered. “I hear strange noises up there. It’s scary. She says I can’t go in… and… and she’s mean.”

My heart tightened.

“Why do you think she’s mean?”

Sophie lowered her head.

“She makes me clean my room by myself and doesn’t give me ice cream, even when I’m good.”

On its own, that didn’t sound terrible. But there was something in my daughter’s tone — a genuine fear — that deeply unsettled me. And the attic came back to my mind. I had seen Amelia go up there several times, always alone, always locking the door. I assumed it was her private space. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Around midnight, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway. I got up quietly and saw Amelia walking toward the attic stairs, carrying a box. I waited a few seconds, then followed her, my heart pounding.

She entered the attic — and for the first time, didn’t lock the door.

I took a deep breath and, driven by an impulse I couldn’t explain, opened the door and stepped inside.

What I saw left me speechless.

The attic wasn’t dark or frightening at all. On the contrary. It was filled with toys, paints, brushes, small colorful furniture. The walls were covered with children’s drawings. In the center of the room was a small bed and a box full of books.

Amelia turned around, startled when she saw me.

“I… I wanted to tell you,” she said, tears in her eyes. “But I didn’t know how.”

She explained that Sophie had been having constant nightmares since her mother’s death. She cried at night, said she saw shadows and felt afraid when she was alone. Amelia, not wanting to worry me during my trips, decided to create a safe space in the attic — a place where Sophie could play, calm down, and express her feelings through art.

“I come up here at night to finish things,” she said. “And I was too strict with her… I thought discipline would help, but I ended up scaring Sophie. I never meant to be cruel.”

In that moment, I understood.

The next day, I brought Sophie up to the attic. Amelia knelt in front of her and apologized. She showed her the toys, the drawings, the books. Little by little, my daughter’s fear turned into curiosity — and then into a smile.

That night, Sophie slept peacefully for the first time in a long while.

I realized then that starting over doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means learning, together, how to live with it.

And for the first time, I felt that our family was finally beginning to heal.