It was a Thursday evening, and like most evenings, the house was chaos.
My five-year-old, Jamie, was building a Lego tower while my toddler, Emily, had decided the living room carpet was the perfect place for a yogurt art installation.
I was exhausted. Single motherhood had become my reality when my husband left two years ago. He had chosen his mistress over us, started a new family, and left me to pick up the pieces.
I had just finished cleaning up Emily’s latest masterpiece when the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, and my first thought was that it must be a solicitor or a neighbor needing something. Instead, it was a young man in a delivery uniform holding a large paper bag of Chinese takeout.
“Hi, uh, delivery for Mrs. Carter?” he said, checking the name on his phone.
“I think you’ve got the wrong address,” I replied, confused.
He frowned and double-checked. “It’s paid for already. Are you sure you didn’t order this?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.”
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“Well, enjoy the food, I guess. No one’s picking up the number listed,” he said with a shrug, handing over the bag.
Curious and slightly baffled, I brought the food inside. The smell of sweet and sour chicken wafted through the air, making my stomach growl.
As I set the bag on the counter, I noticed a receipt tucked inside. On the back, written in neat handwriting, was a note.
I stared at it, my heart racing.
It read:
“He’s not who you think he is. Protect the children. More soon.”
My blood ran cold. The first face that flashed in my mind was my ex-husband. But he wasn’t part of our lives anymore—at least, I thought he wasn’t.
I flipped the receipt over, looking for a name, a clue, anything. Nothing. Just the handwriting.
Jamie tugged at my sleeve. “Mommy, what’s wrong?”
I forced a smile. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just a silly mistake.” But inside, my stomach twisted into knots.
The next morning, I couldn’t shake it. At work, at the grocery store, even while reading Emily a bedtime story—I kept replaying those words. Protect the children.
Two nights later, it happened again.
Another delivery. Different driver. Same restaurant. Same kind of bag. And inside—another note.
This one said:
“He’s closer than you think. Don’t trust anyone who comes back.”
That night, as I tucked Jamie in, I heard a noise outside—footsteps on the gravel driveway. My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
It was a picture of my house. Taken from outside.
And underneath, the message:
“We need to talk. Before it’s too late.”
I froze, staring at the text. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
Whoever it was had been outside my home. Watching. Close enough to take a photo.
I checked on the kids. Both were asleep, Jamie curled around his stuffed dinosaur, Emily breathing softly in her crib. They were safe — for now.
I called the police, but all I got was a dismissive officer who suggested it was probably a prank. “Ma’am, unless they’re actively threatening you, there’s not much we can do.”
A prank. Right. Because strangers always send cryptic warnings about protecting your children.
The next day, I decided to call David — my ex. He answered on the second ring, his voice tight.
“What do you want, Claire?”
Straight to cold hostility. Classic David.
I didn’t waste time. “Have you been sending food deliveries to my house?”
He laughed. Not a normal laugh. A forced, almost panicked one. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” I snapped. “But someone is sending notes. About you. Saying you’re not who you pretend to be.”
There was a pause. A dangerous pause. Then, softly: “Claire, listen to me. If anyone contacts you about me… burn it. Forget it. For your own good.”
And just like that, he hung up.
My skin crawled.
That night, another bag arrived. This time, the note was different. Less warning. More… urgent.
“He lied to you. Check the attic of your old house. The truth is waiting there.”
My old house. The one I shared with David before he walked out.
I hadn’t set foot there in years. But suddenly, I knew I had to.
The problem was — someone else lived there now.
