My world imploded the day Dad died. Not with a bang, but with the quiet, suffocating whisper of an empty house. He was my rock, my anchor. After the funeral, the endless casseroles, and the numb paperwork, I thought I was ready to face the future. My mom was shattered, barely clinging to reality. I was the strong one, the one who held it together. I thought I knew everything there was to know about our small, perfect family. How wrong I was.
A few weeks later, the lawyer called. Dad’s will. Standard stuff, I figured. His assets, his pension, our family home. But then, the lawyer cleared his throat. “There’s… an additional property.” My heart gave a little lurch. An additional property? Dad was meticulous, frugal. He never mentioned an investment property. “A small apartment,” the lawyer continued, “held entirely in his name. Fully furnished. Maintained remotely for years. He stipulated it should go directly to you.”
The keys felt heavy in my hand. A bronze key, not the polished silver of our home. It had an old-fashioned weight to it, a secret. The address was in an unfamiliar part of town, older, quieter. As I drove, a knot tightened in my stomach. Why the secrecy? Why not tell Mom? A wave of unease washed over me.
The building was unassuming, red brick, almost invisible. The hallway was dimly lit, smelling faintly of old dust and something metallic. I pushed the key into the lock. It turned with a reluctant click. The door creaked open, revealing a room shrouded in perpetual twilight. The blinds were drawn, thick with accumulated dust.
I flicked the light switch. Yellowed light filled a small living room. It was furnished simply, almost sparsely. A worn sofa, a small TV, a bookshelf. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, as if untouched for years, yet strangely… lived in. It felt like stepping into a ghost’s home. There were no pictures of us. No family photos. No evidence of our life.
My breath caught in my throat. On a small side table, nestled between a stack of old magazines, was a delicate, silver locket. It was ornate, with tiny engravings. My mom never wore anything like this. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. It felt warm, despite the cold room. My mind raced. What is this place? What did he keep here?
I moved to the bedroom, dread building in my chest. The closet door was ajar. Inside, not his clothes, not my mom’s. Women’s clothes. Smaller sizes, a style completely different from my mother’s classic elegance. Vibrant colours, patterns she would never choose. My heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. NO. This can’t be.
I opened the drawers of the dresser. A silk scarf. A few pieces of simple jewellery. And then, tucked beneath a pile of folded sweaters, a small photo album. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I flipped it open, my eyes wide with a growing, sickening horror.
Page after page, photos. My dad. Smiling, laughing, looking younger, carefree. With her. A woman I had never seen before. Beautiful, with bright eyes and a radiant smile. In some, they were holding hands. In others, they were embracing. On a beach. At a picnic. At what looked like a small, intimate dinner. There were so many. This wasn’t a fleeting affair. This was a life.
My vision blurred. A scream wanted to tear itself from my throat, but I couldn’t make a sound. I stumbled to a small desk in the corner, frantically pulling open drawers. Pencils, paper, a few bills. And then, in the very back, beneath a pile of old envelopes, I found it. A small, wooden box.
My fingers fumbled with the clasp. Inside, nestled on a velvet lining, was a faded photograph. It was my dad, the other woman, and a child. A little boy, no older than five, with my dad’s eyes, his smile. My stomach lurched. My breath caught. A SON.
Beneath the photo, two official-looking documents. The first was a birth certificate. The boy’s name. His mother’s name. And under “Father”: my dad’s full name.
The second document. My eyes scanned it, uncomprehending at first. And then, the words coalesced into a brutal, undeniable truth. It was a marriage certificate. Their names. My dad’s name. Her name. And the date… I stared at the numbers, my mind reeling. It was dated five years before he married my mother.
My dad hadn’t just had an affair. He hadn’t just had a secret child. My entire life was a lie. My mother was the other woman. We were the secret. He had a whole other family, a first family, years before I was even a thought. My whole existence, built on a foundation of betrayal and deceit. My perfect family, a meticulously crafted illusion. The apartment wasn’t just his secret. It was the evidence that my entire life was a lie. I dropped to my knees, the world spinning, shattered.
