Life at the manor revolves around maintaining appearances.
The household staff moves with precision, whispers barely audible behind closed doors.
My father, distant and detached, avoids discussing the triplets.
Power rests heavily with my mother, whose authority remains unchallenged.
The staff treats her with a mix of fear and reverence.
They pass along her silences and secrets without question.
When I try to ask about that night, my questions are met with cold dismissals.
Or reminders about social propriety.
The butler, ever watchful, seems to know more than he lets on.
Over the years, unease around the triplets’ story has escalated.
Old letters have surfaced, hinting at a hidden scandal.
A photograph tucked inside a family album showed a boy who resembled us.
Yet he was missing from all official records.
Rumors swirled through the village about a young man who looked like our family.
Each incident was buried, minimized, or pushed aside.
Yet each chipped away at the wall of silence.
Now, the anniversary of the triplets’ birth approaches.
Relatives from out of town will soon be arriving.
I sense that the past might finally claw its way into the present.
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