Chapter 8: The Secret My Father Hid
I stood frozen on the staircase.
My father.
They were talking about my father.
For years, I believed my family was simple.
My parents loved each other.
They worked hard.
They gave me a home.
They protected me.
Now strangers were whispering about secrets involving the person I trusted most.
I moved closer.
Carefully.
Quietly.
The living room came into view.
Beatrice sat at the table.
Across from her was her brother, Daniel.
A folder was open between them.
My folder.
My hands shook.
Daniel pointed at a document.
“You’re sure she doesn’t know?””
Beatrice smiled.
“She doesn’t know anything.””
I stepped forward.
“She knows now.””
Both of them turned.
The color disappeared from Beatrice’s face.
“What are you doing here?””
I walked into the room.
“What secret about my father are you using?””
Daniel stood.
“Felicity, this isn’t what it looks like.””
I laughed.
“Everyone says that too.””
Beatrice closed the folder.
“You have no right to go through private conversations.””
I stared.
“You’re sitting in my house reading my private documents.””
She had no answer.
I walked to the table and picked up the folder.
Inside were copies of financial records.
Old ones.
From years ago.
I recognized my father’s signature.
“What is this?””
Nobody spoke.
I looked at Daniel.
“You tell me.””
He looked at Beatrice.
She sighed.
“Your father wasn’t always honest.””
My heart sank.
“About what?””
She leaned back.
“About the house.””
I looked down at the papers.
“What are you talking about?””
She smiled slightly.
“He didn’t simply give you this house.””
I waited.
“He bought it from someone in my family.””
I frowned.
“What?””
Daniel spoke.
“Your father purchased this property from our father thirty years ago.””
I looked between them.
“So?””
“So,” Beatrice said, “your father never told you who originally owned the land.””
I felt confused.
“Why does that matter?””
Because they weren’t explaining.
They were creating mystery.
And I hated that.
“Say what you mean.””
Beatrice leaned forward.
“Your father took advantage of our family.””
I stared.
“That’s a lie.””
“You weren’t there.””
“No. But I know my father.””
Her expression changed.
“Everyone thinks they know their parents.””
That sentence hurt.
Because she wanted it to.
She wanted me to doubt him.
I grabbed the documents.
“I’m taking these.””
Daniel stepped forward.
“You can’t.””
I looked at him.
“Try stopping me.””
He stopped.
Because he knew.
The next day, I sat with my father.
I placed the documents on his kitchen table.
He looked at them.
Then closed his eyes.
“I was hoping this day would never come.””
My heart sank.
“Dad.””
He looked older suddenly.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
“There’s something I should have told you.””
I waited.
“When I bought that house, there was a dispute.””
“Dispute?””
“The previous owner’s family believed they deserved more money.””
“Beatrice’s family?””
He nodded.
“They tried to take it back.””
I looked at the documents.
“Why didn’t you tell me?””
“Because it was handled.””
“How?””
My father looked away.
“I paid them.””
I frowned.
“Then why are they saying you cheated them?””
“Because they wanted more.””
Silence.
Then he reached for my hand.
“Felicity, listen to me.””
I looked at him.
“I made mistakes in my life. But giving you that house was never one of them.””
I believed him.
I always had.
But there was one thing I needed to know.
“Dad.””
“Yes?””
“Did you know Lucas’s family was connected to the property?””
His silence answered.
My heart dropped.
“You knew?””
“I knew his mother’s last name.””
“And you let me date him?””
“I didn’t know he was involved.””
I looked down.
“Why didn’t you warn me?””
My father’s eyes filled with regret.
“Because I saw a young man who made you happy.””
The pain in his voice was real.
And that hurt.
Because my father had made the same mistake I had.
Trusting someone’s appearance.
That night, I returned home.
The locks had been changed.
I stood outside staring.
Someone had changed my locks.
Again.
I called the locksmith.
When the door opened, I found something waiting inside.
A letter.
My name was written on the envelope.
Not printed.
Written.
May you like
In handwriting I recognized immediately.
My mother’s handwriting.
