My son passed away in a tragic ac.cid.e.nt at the age of 16.
Through it all, my husband, Sam, never shed a single tear.
The loss drove a wedge between us that eventually tore our family apart, and we ended up divorcing.
Sam moved on and remarried.
Twelve years later, he passed away.
A few days after his d.ea.th, his wife came to visit me. What she said shook me to my core.
“It’s time you knew the truth,” she began. “Sam discovered he wasn’t your son’s biological father. He never told you, but he carried that hurt with him for years. That’s why he couldn’t cry when your son died—he was too broken, too angry.”
She paused before continuing. “But in the final years of his life, that anger gave way to sorrow. He was full of regret. He wished he had been more loving. He missed your son deeply, even if they didn’t share blood.”
I felt like the ground had been pulled from beneath me.
Because the truth was—I had lied.
My son had been the result of a relationship with my college boyfriend, and from the moment he was born, I knew Sam wasn’t his biological father.
I kept that secret, never suspecting that Sam had uncovered it on his own… even going as far as getting a DNA test.
It felt like my past had finally caught up with me—and the consequences of that lie had echoed further than I ever imagined.
