I don’t know how to even begin. It feels like confessing a crime, even though the only crime committed was one against truth, against me, against the very fabric of my life. My dad… he was my rock. My compass. Everything I believed about integrity, about unwavering love, I learned from him. He was a quiet man, not given to grand declarations, but his presence was a fortress.
I remember his hands. Strong, calloused from years of working in his workshop, but gentle when they ruffled my hair, or helped me tie a fishing knot. His eyes, the color of warm honey, always seemed to hold a deep understanding, a quiet wisdom. I always felt safe with him. Truly, utterly safe. Our home was simple, filled with laughter and the smell of sawdust and my mom’s baking. It was an ordinary life, and I cherished every single ordinary moment.
He was the kind of father who showed up. Every school play, every soccer game, every scraped knee. He taught me how to change a tire, how to negotiate a fair price, how to look someone in the eye and mean what I said. He was my hero, without a cape, just a worn denim shirt and a heart I believed to be pure gold. Unquestionably pure.
Spencer Lofranco attends the “King Cobra” premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival at Regal Battery Park 11 on April 16, 2016, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
Then he got sick. It was fast, brutal. He wasted away before our eyes, those honey eyes losing their light, his strong hands becoming frail. We held vigil, my mom and I, helpless witnesses to the inevitable. When he finally slipped away, it felt like the world went silent. An actual, deafening silence that vibrated in my bones. The fortress was gone.
The hardest part came weeks later, when the numbness started to wear off, and the practicalities set in. Sorting through his things. My mom couldn’t bear to touch his study, his sanctuary. So it fell to me. Every book, every tool, every meticulously labeled box felt like a piece of him, a memory to cling to. It was agonizing, a slow torture of grief.
I found it tucked away in the back of his old filing cabinet, behind old tax documents and faded photos of family vacations. A small wooden box, unassuming, unvarnished. It wasn’t locked, but it felt like it should have been. My hands trembled as I lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of yellowed tissue paper, was a silver locket I’d never seen before, and a small stack of letters tied with a thin, brittle ribbon.
Spencer Lofranco attends “The Cinema Society” screening of DreamWorks Studios’ “People Like Us” on June 25, 2012, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
My first thought was a sickening jolt of dread. Another woman? It was unthinkable. My dad? The paragon of faithfulness? My stomach twisted. But the locket… it felt familiar somehow. I opened it. Inside were two tiny, faded photographs. One was of my mom, so young, her hair wild and free, a dazzling smile. The other… the other was a man I didn’t recognize. He was handsome, rugged, with a intensity in his gaze that was unsettling.
Then I picked up the letters. They weren’t addressed to my dad. They were addressed to my mother. Each one signed with a single initial: ‘A’.
My breath caught. What was this? I started reading, slowly at first, then faster, my eyes devouring the elegant, desperate script. The words were a torrent of passion, regret, longing. They spoke of a summer, a forbidden love, a connection so deep it defied logic. “My dearest, my impossible love,” one began. “I know this is madness, but I can’t stop thinking of that last night, that last touch. Our secret, it binds me.”
Actor Spencer Lofranco attends Angeleno’s Issue release party on April 12, 2016, in West Hollywood, California | Source: Getty Images
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was an affair. My mother. With this ‘A’. But when? My parents had been together forever. They were a unit. Unbreakable.
I looked at the dates on the letters. They spanned years. From before my parents were married, stretching into their first few years of marriage. A cold, heavy stone settled in my gut. I kept reading, a frantic search for clarity amidst the growing horror.
Then I hit a letter, dated just a few months before I was born. My vision blurred, words swimming before my eyes. “I know the truth, my love. You don’t have to hide it from me. I understand, you have to do what’s right for the child. But know this, our child will always have my love, even if from afar. Please, tell me they’re okay. That they have your eyes. That they are safe. This is our burden, not theirs.“
OUR CHILD.
Spencer Lofranco attends the “King Cobra” premiere with fellow actors at Regal Battery Park 11 on April 16, 2016, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
The words echoed in my head, a terrifying, deafening drumbeat. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. I looked at my birth certificate, which was still in the cabinet, in the same folder as the letters. My birthdate. I did the math, the frantic, sickening arithmetic in my head. It couldn’t be. It matched. The timing was undeniable.
The man I called Dad, the man who raised me, the man I loved more than anyone… he wasn’t my biological father.
It hit me with the force of a physical blow. A guttural sob tore from my throat. My entire life, every memory, every cherished moment, twisted into something else entirely. It wasn’t just my mother’s secret. It was Dad’s secret. He knew. He must have known. He took me in, loved me, raised me as his own, knowing I was the product of another man, of an affair.
Spencer Lofranco is pictured at the “Gotti” premiere on June 14, 2018, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
He never once let on. Never. Not a word, not a glance, not a flicker of resentment. He gave me his name, his love, his entire heart, knowing I carried the blood of another man, a man who still loved my mother with a desperate, secret passion even after she chose another life.
My mom. The woman who baked me cookies, who sang me lullabies, who held me when I cried. She had lived with this lie, this profound betrayal of the man who loved her so fiercely. And my dad… he shielded her. He shielded me. He carried the weight of that truth, silently, heroically, for his entire life.
I sat there on the floor of his study, surrounded by the ghosts of his integrity, the shattered pieces of my own identity. The man I thought I knew was even more extraordinary than I ever imagined. Not because he was perfect, but because his capacity for love and sacrifice was so immense it defied understanding.
Spencer Lofranco is seen at the “People Like Us” screening, circa June 25, 2012 | Source: Getty Images
My hero. He wasn’t just a good man; he was a silent martyr. He chose unconditional love over truth, stability over personal anguish. He loved me so much that he lived a lie to give me a perfect life, to give us a perfect life.
I looked at the photos in the locket again. My mom, young and beautiful, and the man named A. My biological father. He looked nothing like my dad. But looking at him now, I saw something in his eyes… something I recognized in my own reflection.
EVERYTHING I THOUGHT I KNEW WAS A LIE. But the lie wasn’t born of malice; it was born of a love so deep, so profound, it transcended blood, transcended betrayal. My dad, the man who loved me like no other, was truly my father in every way that mattered. And yet, the knowledge that I am not his flesh and blood, that my existence is a testament to my mother’s youthful passion and his selfless sacrifice, has changed me forever.
Mary-Louise Parker and Spencer Lofranco attend the Contentmode HopeNorth benefit at The Jane Hotel on April 19, 2012, in New York City. | Source: Getty Images
I can’t unsee it. I can’t unknow it. I can’t confront my mother. What would I even say? How could I ever speak of the incredible, heartbreaking secret my dad kept, a secret that defined his entire, noble life, and now defines mine? The silence is deafening again, but this time, it’s filled with the echoes of a love so vast it broke me. My hero. My silent, heartbroken hero.
