I never wanted to house-sit for my mom. We have a complicated relationship, built on a foundation of unspoken expectations and a thick layer of guilt. Every favor felt like another brick in that wall, another tally mark on a ledger I never asked to be part of. So, when she called, chirpy and insistent about her “much-needed retreat,” I grumbled, but I said yes. I always say yes.
This time, it felt heavier. We’d had a particularly nasty fight just weeks before. Something about my life choices, her disappointment, the usual. I’d walked away feeling hollow, wishing I could just… escape her orbit entirely. But here I was, keys jingling in my hand, walking up the familiar path, ready to spend a week in the house that held so many memories, both cherished and bitter.
The air inside was stale, a mix of her floral perfume and dust. I dropped my bag by the door, took a deep breath, and started towards the kitchen for a glass of water. That’s when I noticed it. The bedroom door, her bedroom door, usually kept tightly shut, was ajar. Just a crack. A sliver of darkness.
Odd, I thought. She’s meticulous. Everything in its place. I figured she must have rushed out, maybe forgot to close it properly. A small wave of annoyance washed over me. Even in absence, she found a way to mildly irritate me. I pushed the door open, intending to just close it.
And then I saw it. Not her. A man.
He was lying in her bed, tangled in her familiar floral sheets, one arm thrown above his head, his face turned towards the wall. Deep, steady breaths filled the quiet room. My heart stopped. Just… stopped. Every sound in the house, every internal thought, evaporated into a ringing silence.
A view from Arnold Schwarzenegger’s estate looking out toward the hills in a post dated April 9, 2024 | Source: Instagram/schwarzenegger
Who is that? My mind screamed the question, but no sound escaped my throat. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up my spine. My first instinct was intruder. A break-in. But then I looked closer. His clothes weren’t strewn across the floor in a frantic mess. They were folded neatly on her armchair: a pair of jeans, a dark blue t-shirt. On her bedside table, next to her half-read book, sat a pair of glasses that weren’t hers and a watch I’d never seen.
He looked comfortable. Too comfortable.
I backed away slowly, silently, my breath held tight in my chest. The floorboards creaked beneath my weight, and I froze, my eyes glued to his unmoving form. He didn’t stir. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against my terror. I made it out of the room, gently pulling the door almost shut, leaving it just as I found it.
My brain was a chaotic whirlwind. My mom was supposed to be hundreds of miles away. She specifically told me she was going alone. Was she back? Did she bring someone? And why wouldn’t she tell me? The betrayal stung even before I understood the depth of it.
I retreated to the living room, collapsing onto the sofa, my hands trembling. Every shadow seemed to move, every creak of the old house amplified. I should call the police. No, what if he was… hers? I should confront him. But what if he was dangerous? What if he was a stranger and my mom was in trouble? My thoughts spiraled, each possibility more terrifying than the last.
Then, a flicker of something. A memory. An old, yellowed photograph in a box in the attic. One I’d glanced at years ago and promptly dismissed, thinking it was an old family friend. Suddenly, my focus sharpened. I need to know.
I crept back towards the bedroom, but this time I didn’t open the door. I tiptoed past it, towards her study. Another forbidden zone. She always kept it locked, always said it was “her private space.” But today, it was unlocked. Another anomaly.
My hands shook as I pushed the door open. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper and dust. Everything was meticulously organized. Bookshelves overflowing, framed photos of me as a child, us together. But my eyes darted to the desk. And there, tucked beneath a stack of bills, was a small, ornate wooden box.
Arnold Schwarzenegger prepares treats for his animals in the kitchen in a photo from a clip dated September 8, 2023 | Source: Instagram/schwarzenegger
I’d seen it before. My mom kept her “important papers” in it. Birth certificates, old letters. My fingers fumbled with the latch. It clicked open. Inside, nestled among official-looking documents, were photographs. Dozens of them. Not just recent ones, but old, faded prints.
I picked one up. It was a picture of my mom, much younger, laughing, her arm wrapped around… HIM. The man in her bed. The same kind eyes, the same crooked smile. They looked so happy. So in love. My breath hitched. This wasn’t some new fling. This was old.
My fingers flew through the other photos. More of them together. Holidays. Picnics. Holding hands. A picture of them with a baby carriage. My baby carriage. My eyes widened. NO. This can’t be. This can’t be real.
I dug deeper, my hands tearing through the box now. Underneath the stack of photos, a small, worn leather-bound journal. Her elegant handwriting. I flipped it open, scanning the pages frantically. Dates from decades ago. Entries about a secret love, a forbidden relationship. The pain of keeping it hidden. The joy of stolen moments.
And then I saw the name. The name of the man she had always told me was a ghost. A fleeting mistake. A deadbeat who left her, never to be seen again. The man she told me was NOT MY FATHER. The name she had carefully erased from our lives, from my history.
The journal entry read: “He’s back. After all these years. I can’t believe it. The fear, the hope. He wants to know. He wants to be part of OUR life. My heart is breaking. I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell them. Not now. Not ever.”
A wave of nausea washed over me. Them? Plural?
I dropped the journal, my head spinning. The man sleeping in her bed wasn’t a stranger. He was the man she had sworn was a stranger. He was the man she had erased. He was the man she told me had died before I was old enough to remember. He was MY FATHER.
And not only was he alive, but he was here. In her bed. Again. After all these years. My entire life, every story she’d ever told me about him, about us, about my origins, was a meticulously crafted lie. A LIFETIME OF LIES.
Arnold Schwarzenegger walks through his estate with his pig following behind in a video posted on April 9, 2024 | Source: Instagram/schwarzenegger
My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, clutching the photographs. The joyful faces of my young parents stared up at me, mocking every carefully constructed memory I had of my childhood, of her as a single, strong, wronged mother. The tears came then, hot and bitter, blurring the faces in the photos.
She wasn’t just a complicated mother. She was a deceiver. A master manipulator. And I, her only child, had been living a carefully orchestrated fiction my entire life.
The thought of him, still sleeping peacefully in the other room, utterly unaware that his secret was now exposed, sent a fresh wave of agony through me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to wake him. I wanted to shake my mom until the truth spilled out of her.
But all I could do was sit there, surrounded by the remnants of a shattered past, realizing that the “much-needed retreat” she was on might not be a retreat at all. It might be a calculated escape. And the house I was supposed to be watching was nothing but a museum of her deception. I have no idea who she is. And I have no idea who I am.
My whole life. A lie.
My father. Not dead. Never dead.
And I just found him, sleeping soundly, in my mother’s bed. My world, utterly, irrevocably shattered.
