The world blurred after Mom died. Not just metaphorically, but literally. My eyes, swollen from endless tears, refused to focus on anything beyond the raw, aching void she’d left behind. She was my anchor, my confidante, the one who saw the world exactly as I did, in vibrant, impossible colors.
And then there was the gift. Not a trinket, not a sentimental keepsake, but a tangible manifestation of her unwavering belief in me. Years ago, Mom had started a special savings account. She called it my “Dream Fund.” It was specifically for the down payment on the small studio apartment I always envisioned, a place with big windows and enough light for my painting. “This is just for you,” she’d whispered on my last birthday, pressing the passbook into my hand. “No matter what happens, promise me you’ll use it to create your own beautiful space.” It was her last concrete promise to me. Her legacy wasn’t just memories; it was this secure, dedicated future.
Dad, a man often quiet and reserved, retreated even further into himself after her passing. He walked around the house like a ghost, his shoulders perpetually slumped. I watched him, heartbroken, wishing I knew how to ease his pain, even as I drowned in my own. We barely spoke beyond necessary logistics. The silence in the house was a heavy blanket, muffling everything, even grief itself. I clung to the passbook, a small, worn item, like a lifeline. It felt like holding a piece of her, warm and hopeful, against the cold reality of her absence.
A serious man in a dark living room | Source: Pexels
Then, about two months after the funeral, he came to me. He sat on the edge of my bed, something he hadn’t done since I was a little girl, before my bedtime stories. His hands twisted in his lap. This felt different. His eyes, usually clouded with sorrow, held a desperate glint.
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice raspy.
My heart immediately thudded. I braced myself for something about the house, bills, or her things. But it wasn’t any of that.
“It’s about the fund your mother set up for you,” he started, barely meeting my gaze.
I felt a chill despite myself. “The Dream Fund? What about it?” Don’t touch it. Please don’t touch it.
He took a shaky breath. “I need you to… to give it to me. All of it.”
My stomach dropped. “What? Dad, no. This is for my studio. Mom specifically—”
“I know what it’s for,” he cut me off, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “But there’s an emergency. A serious one. And it’s the only way.”
“An emergency? What kind of emergency? And why my fund? You have your own savings. You have Mom’s life insurance.” My voice was rising, a desperate edge creeping in. The very thought of touching that money for anything other than what Mom intended felt like a betrayal.
An emotional woman in a dark room | Source: Pexels
He stood up, pacing a small circle in my room. “It’s complicated. Something I’ve been dealing with for a long time. Quietly.” He stopped, faced me, his expression hardened, almost resolute. “It’s for his other child. My other child.”
The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. My vision, which had only been blurry from tears, now swam with pure, unadulterated shock. His other child? I stared at him, unable to process the words. What did he just say? I knew no other child. There was just me. Just us. Our family. Mom, Dad, and me. That was the story. That was our life.
“WHAT?” I heard my own voice, sharp and alien. “What are you talking about? Your other child? What does that even mean?”
He ran a hand over his face, looking older, more broken than I’d ever seen him. “It means exactly what I said. There’s someone else. A son. He’s… he’s in trouble. Bad trouble. A medical situation. He needs treatment. A lot of money, and fast. I can’t get it anywhere else in time.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He just kept repeating, “It’s my son. He needs it. Mom… Mom would have understood. She always believed in helping people.”
My mind reeled. Mom. My Mom. Would she have understood that I should sacrifice her last, personal gift to me to save his secret son, from a life she never knew about? A son born of a betrayal so profound it shattered everything I thought I knew? My teeth clenched. My hands started to tremble. This wasn’t just about money anymore. This was about a lie so immense it warped our entire past. My perfect, loving family. The image I cherished, the foundation of my existence, imploded in a single, gut-wrenching sentence.
A couple bonding at night | Source: Freepik
“You had another child,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “While you were with Mom? Our whole life was a lie?”
He flinched. “It’s not that simple. It was… a long time ago. A mistake. But he’s still my son. He’s sick. He has no one else.” He looked at me, pleading. “You have to do this. For me. For him. Your mother’s fund is the only way.”
My vision went white hot. The grief for Mom, which had been a dull ache, erupted into a searing inferno of rage and profound heartbreak. Mom thought she was building a future for me. A future free of this kind of pain, of this kind of deceit. And now, in her absence, Dad was asking me to dismantle her legacy, her belief, to prop up a secret life that mocked her memory. A secret life that killed the beautiful, simple truth of our family.
My studio apartment with the big windows, the light streaming in, where I would paint all my impossible colors… it vanished. Replaced by a desolate, gray landscape.
My mother, my anchor, had left me a gift to build my dreams.
And my father, the man she loved, now demanded I use it to cover the cost of his unforgivable secret.
A happy couple | Source: Freepik
I stared at the passbook in my hand, no longer a beacon of hope, but a weapon. A testament to a love I thought was pure, now irrevocably stained. I looked at Dad, not seeing my quiet, grieving father anymore, but a stranger, a betrayer, desperately trying to salvage a life he’d hidden for decades. My heart, already fractured by loss, cracked open further, revealing an abyss of betrayal I hadn’t known existed.
EVERYTHING WAS A LIE.
