At my wedding reception, my new husband's little daughter tugged on my dress and asked, "Can I tell you Daddy's secret now that you're my mommy?" — but what she said next made my stomach drop.

The interior of Oakhaven smelled of industrial floor wax, lavender air freshener, and underlying antiseptic despair. The staff moved with hushed efficiency, their soft-soled shoes squeaking against linoleum.

A senior nurse with graying hair met me outside Room 14. "Mrs. Vance? I have to warn you, Sarah has been experiencing severe agitation since her last evaluation. Dr. Mercer adjusted her medication, but she remains fixated on delusions regarding her child."

"Delusions?" I echoed, my chest tightening.

"She insists that her daughter is being kept from her illegally. Of course, given her history of acute postpartum psychosis and subsequent violence, the court-ordered conservatorship remains absolute. Graham has been remarkably patient through all these years."

"Of course," I managed to murmur. "I just... I want to see her."

The nurse unlocked the heavy door with a magnetic keycard. "Ten minutes. If she becomes distressed, press the red button by the frame."

The room was spacious, almost like a luxury suite, but every piece of furniture was bolted to the floor, and the expansive windows looking out onto the courtyard garden were made of reinforced shatterproof glass.

Sitting on a floral armchair in the corner was a woman.

She was thin, painfully so, her collarbones sharp beneath a soft gray cardigan. Her hair was a rich, chestnut brown, streaked prematurely with silver, falling around a face that was hollowed by grief but unmistakably stunning. She had Millie’s high cheekbones, Millie’s delicate chin.

At the sound of the door closing, Sarah turned her head. Her hazel eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with instant, defensive terror.

"Who are you?" she rasped. Her voice sounded unused, like dry leaves scraping over pavement. "Are you another evaluator?"

I took a slow, hesitant step forward, keeping my hands visible. "No. Sarah... my name is Clara."

She froze. The color drained from her already pale face until she looked like marble. Her hands, resting in her lap, began to tremble uncontrollably.

"Clara," she whispered. "The... the new wife. The one in the photos Graham brought." She let out a cracked, bitter laugh that ended in a sob. "Did you come to see the madwoman? Did you come to inspect the monster your husband replaced?"

"No," I said, dropping to my knees a few feet away from her, exactly as I had knelt before Millie hours earlier. "I came because Millie told me you were here."

Sarah gasped, clutching her chest. "Millie? You spoke to Millie? Is she alright? Does she have her asthma inhaler? Did Graham—"

"Millie is safe. But Sarah... Graham told me you died six years ago. He told the entire world you died giving birth to her."

Sarah stared at me, the frantic terror in her eyes slowly giving way to profound, agonizing shock. "He... he told everyone I was dead?"