Thirty Years of Lies

I felt like the floor had vanished beneath me. “No,” I said. “That’s not possible.

Your father would never—” “He knew,” my son interrupted softly. The words landed

heavier than everything before them. “I confronted him after I found the letters,” he continued.

“At first he denied it. Then he broke.” My hands were shaking. “What did he say?”

He looked down. “He said it happened before I was born. He stayed with you because he didn’t

want you to know. When the hospital mix-up happened… he saw it as a way to bury the truth.”

I couldn’t hear anything else. Just a ringing in my ears. “Thirty years,”

I whispered. “He lied to me for thirty years.” “He told himself it didn’t matter,”