My sister often cared for my son on weekends — Friday to Sunday — because I worked long hours. He loved her and always came home full of stories.
One day, as I drove him home, he casually said, “My other father fixed my bike this weekend.” My blood ran cold. What other father? I asked. He smiled and said, “The one at Auntie’s house.” My heart stopped.
At my sister’s house later, I found photo albums and a birth certificate: not my husband’s name as father, but a stranger’s. The man from the photos. I realized she had kept a secret family with my son. I wasn’t his mother — I was just a cover. Everything I believed — love, trust, family — was a lie.