The night was silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan, its blades slicing through the warm air like a slow rhythm. I lay in bed, eyes half-closed, drifting between the remnants of a dream and the reality that was my life. Suddenly, a hand shook my shoulder, pulling me back to consciousness.
I turned to see my wife, her face a silhouette against the dim light filtering through the window blinds. Her eyes were wide, filled with a panic I’d never seen before.
“What’s wrong?” I mumbled, trying to shake off the sleep.
She didn’t respond immediately, instead reaching over to the nightstand and picking up a small, crumpled piece of paper. She handed it to me, her hands trembling slightly.
“You need to see this,” she whispered.
I sat up, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. The paper felt fragile in my hands, as if it held more than just words. I unfolded it slowly, my heart beginning to race.
The words on the page were scrawled in a familiar handwriting, one I’d seen grow from shaky lines in elementary school to the confident strokes of a teenager.
As I read, my breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the impact of each sentence hit me.
“Why didn’t he tell us?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
My wife shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice cracking.
We sat there in silence, the reality of the situation settling over us like a heavy fog.
Twelve years. That’s how long it had been since I’d taken on the role of a father, since I’d promised my best friend on her deathbed that I’d raise her son as my own.
I thought I knew him, knew everything about him. But this… this was something I never saw coming.
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