“Five years ago, Dad drove me to a house. There was a woman living there with two little children. He told me I could never tell you about them.”
I froze.
“Two children?”
“Yes. A little boy and a girl.”
It felt as though someone had punched me in the chest.
“Emily… are they your father’s children?”
My daughter fell silent. And that silence seemed to answer my question.
“So you’ve been visiting them every week?”
“Yes.”
“And the money?”
“Dad transferred money into my account every month. He kept saying I’d understand why someday.”
I couldn’t listen anymore. I grabbed my car keys.
“Mom, wait! You don’t know everything!”
But I was already running out of the house.
Robert was at work that afternoon.
When I stormed into his office, his secretary tried to stop me.
I pushed open the door.
My husband was sitting behind his desk.
The moment he saw me, he stood up.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?”
I slammed my phone onto his desk.
“WHO ARE THOSE TWO CHILDREN?”
His face turned pale.
“Emily told you?”
“YES! AND NOW YOU’RE GOING TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING!”
Robert slowly sat back down.
He remained silent for several seconds.
Then he opened a drawer and pulled out an old photograph.
It showed a woman standing with two children outside a hospital.
I looked closely at the picture.
And suddenly, my hands began trembling.
I recognized the woman.
But it was impossible.
“Robert… is that Sarah?”
He nodded.
Sarah was my younger sister.
The sister I hadn’t spoken to in twelve years.
Our argument had started after our mother’s death.
