My Wife Vanished When Our Daughter Was 3 Months Old – Five Years Later, We Saw Her on TV

January 5, 2026 by Nadia

“Must be with Maisie,” I muttered, dragging myself out of bed, feet flinching at the cold floor as I crossed the hall.

The nursery nightlight glowed soft yellow. I pushed the door open with my shoulder.

Maisie was sleeping, warm and perfect, cheeks flushed and mouth slack, her tiny fist wrapped around the sleeve of Erin’s gray hoodie. The one she’d worn nonstop through the pregnancy and long before that. I’d joked that if it ever disintegrated, she’d go into mourning.

The drawstring was gone, one side of the hood frayed and empty. I noticed it, filed it away as one of those little things I’d fix later.

Maisie sighed and snuggled closer to the fabric.

I breathed out, too, a small, shaky exhale that was half relief, half confusion.

6:14 a.m.

By now, there should’ve been sounds—mug on counter, kettle whining, Erin humming under her breath as she wiped something that didn’t need wiping.

Nothing.

I checked the bathroom.

Empty.

I walked into the kitchen and stopped.

Her phone sat on the counter, still plugged in, green battery bar at 76%. Her keys were in the little bowl by the door. Her wedding ring glinted in the ceramic dish near the sink—the one she used when she washed dishes or kneaded dough.

Only this time, it hadn’t found its way back to her hand.

No note. No text on my phone. No open back door. No sign of a struggle. Just an absence so loud it made my ears ring.

My wife was gone.

The first week, I was all motion. I called every hospital within driving distance. I drove to her mother’s house twice even though their relationship had been strained for years. I left messages with friends from college, friends from work, anyone who might have heard something—anything.

I barely slept. I’d jolt awake at every sound, convinced it was the door, that she’d be there, barefoot and exhausted, saying, “It got too hard. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

She never was.

People tried to help in ways that didn’t.

“Postpartum depression can be… intense,” one neighbor said gently, handing me a basket of apples like grief could be balanced out with fruit. “Sometimes moms run. They come back.”

“You know, maybe she just needed space,” another friend offered. “Babies change everything. Maybe it was too much.”

My own mother, never one to sugarcoat, looked at me over a cup of tea and said, “Maybe you missed the signs, Mark. That’s on you.”

After that, I stopped inviting people over. Continue reading…