This is just grief. Just two broken people finding solace.
Then Robert arrived late, eyes frantic, jacket half on. He grabbed my arm.
“Claire. We need to talk. Now.”
Before I could ask what was wrong, he said the words that shattered everything.
“You don’t really know who Dad is.”
He didn’t slow down until we were nearly outside. The music softened behind us. Laughter spilled through the open doors. Someone clinked a glass in celebration. It felt grotesque.
“What’s going on?” I whispered sharply. “You missed the ceremony. You look like you ran here.”
“I almost didn’t come,” he said. His hand trembled when he finally released my arm. “I was told not to.”
“Told by who?”
Robert glanced back toward the reception hall, then lowered his voice. “Mom.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m serious. I swear.”
“You’re saying Mom told you something… after she died?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Before.”
We stood near a row of coat racks, half concealed by tall plants. Guests passed by, smiling, unaware that my legs felt ready to give out beneath me.
“A lawyer called me this morning. I almost ignored it—I thought it was spam.”
“And?”
“He knew Mom’s name. Her illness. The exact day she died.”
My mouth went dry.
“He said Mom asked him to contact me when Dad remarried,” Robert went on. “Specifically, when Dad married Laura.”
A chill traced its way down my spine.
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she—”
“She found out,” Robert cut in.
“Found out what?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled an envelope from inside his jacket—thick, cream-colored, sealed.
“She wrote this after she knew she was dying. She told him to hold onto it until the right moment.”
My gaze fixed on the envelope.
“What’s inside?”
“The truth about Dad.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Dad stayed. He cared for her. He was there every day.”
“That’s what she believed too,” my brother said softly.
“Read it,” I whispered.
“I can’t. Not here. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because once you know, there’s no going back.”
A burst of laughter erupted from inside. Someone called out my name.
“Claire! They’re about to cut the cake!”
I didn’t move.
“What did Mom discover?” I asked again.
Robert rubbed his face, like he was trying to pull himself awake.
“She discovered that Dad had been deceiving her for years—not about small things, but about who he truly was.”
“That’s deliberately vague,” I snapped. “Stop doing that.”
He met my eyes. “Do you remember how Laura suddenly moved closer when Mom got sick?”
“Yes. She said she wanted to help.”
“And how Dad always insisted she stay? How she was constantly around whenever Mom wasn’t well?”
“Grief makes people hold on,” I said, though my voice lacked certainty.
“Or conceal things.”
I shook my head. “No. If you’re suggesting what I think you are—”
“I’m telling you exactly what Mom wrote,” he said. “Dad had been involved with someone else through much of their marriage. And when she finally pieced everything together… that person wasn’t a stranger.”
My head spun. “Her sister.”
“There’s more,” Robert cut in. “There’s a child—one everyone believed belonged to someone else.”
“What are you saying?”
Robert glanced back toward the reception. At the smiling guests. At our father.
“I’m saying,” he whispered, “this wedding didn’t begin after Mom died.”
I opened my mouth, but he raised a hand. “Not here. We need privacy. And time. Because once I tell you what’s in that letter…”
He pressed the envelope into my hand.
“…you’ll understand that Mom knew she was being betrayed while she was dying.”
Behind us, the music swelled.
Someone lit sparklers.
My hands began to tremble as I felt the weight of the paper—heavy with the truth that was about to shatter everything.
I don’t remember deciding it. We simply didn’t speak. Life continued just a few steps away, while mine split open. We slipped into a small side room. Empty chairs. A coat rack. A window cracked open for air. Robert shut the door.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat. My legs barely held me. Robert stood in front of me, holding the envelope as if it were dangerous.
“Promise me something first,” he said.
“What?”
“Promise you won’t interrupt. Not until I’m finished.”
I nodded. He broke the seal. The paper inside was carefully folded, the handwriting neat and achingly familiar.
“It starts like a farewell,” Robert said softly. “She wrote it knowing she wouldn’t be there to explain.”
He took a steadying breath and began to read.
SEE CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE
