When my five-year-old mentioned visiting “Daddy’s other kids” at the “secret house,” I was stunned. I thought I knew everything about my husband, but what I discovered left me speechless.
It was a typical Tuesday. I picked up Tim from kindergarten, and he was his usual cheerful self. He showed me a glittery paper plate turtle and said, “Look, Mommy!” I smiled and asked, “Is it a ninja turtle?” He laughed, “No, it’s just Turtle. He’s slow but nice.”
As I buckled him into his car seat, he casually said, “Mommy, can we go to the playground near Daddy’s other house again? I miss his other kids.” I was taken aback. “Whose kids, honey?” I asked. He shrugged and said, “Daddy’s other kids! The ones who call him ‘Dad’ too! They had juice boxes and a bouncy couch.”
“When did you see them?” I asked, trying to stay calm. “When you were on the airplane for your work trip. Daddy said it was a secret house,”
I had been away for a tech conference in Austin. Jake had volunteered to handle everything at home. “What do you mean by a secret house?” I asked, my heart racing. He leaned forward and whispered, “Daddy said not to tell you because it’s just for fun times. The kids there have balloons all over, and the TV is so big it covers the whole wall.”
I didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. My mind raced with questions.
At home, I checked Tim’s tablet GPS app. There was a dot at an unfamiliar address, about 20 minutes away, where it stayed for three hours that Saturday. Long enough for balloons, juice boxes, and for other kids to call Jake “Dad.”
I didn’t sleep that night. My mind kept going over every awful possibility. The next morning, I dropped Tim off at kindergarten and drove straight to the address.
The house was pale yellow with a big front porch and wind chimes. A hand-painted sign said, “Be Kind—Everyone’s Fighting a Battle You Can’t See.” I sat there for about 20 minutes, watching. Then I saw Jake. He walked out holding the hand of a little girl with curly brown hair tied in pink bows. More kids followed, laughing and tugging on his shirt.
A woman stepped onto the porch and waved at me like she already knew me. She introduced herself as Carol, a retired social worker. She explained that the house was called Sunshine House, a foster care center where volunteers helped take care of kids going through tough times.
Jake had been volunteering there every Saturday for two months. At Sunshine House, kids were allowed to call the adult volunteers “Mom” or “Dad” if they wanted, to give them comfort and a sense of family.
Tim hadn’t lied to me—he just didn’t know the full story. He thought it was a secret because Jake had simply said not to make a big deal about it. He believed the other kids were his siblings because they also called Jake “Dad.”
The only real secret was that I had married someone even more caring than I realized. I felt guilty for doubting him—for letting my mind go straight to the worst instead of trusting the man I’ve built a life with. I thought he was hiding another family. But really, he was trying to be family to kids who didn’t have one. I’m truly lucky to have a husband like him.