The hours ticked by, the clock on the wall marking time with its steady tick-tock. Each second seemed to stretch, a testament to the weight of what we had discovered.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at my wife, afraid of the questions that lay behind her eyes, questions I couldn’t answer.
For twelve years, I’d been his father in every way that mattered. I’d watched him grow, celebrated his successes, comforted him through failures.
And yet, this secret had eluded me, hidden behind the smiles and laughter we shared.
“We need to talk to him,” my wife said finally, breaking the silence that had wrapped around us.
Her voice was firm, determined, the same tone she used when she made up her mind about something.
“We can’t ignore this,” she added, her gaze fixed on the paper that lay between us.
I nodded, though my mind was a whirl of confusion and disbelief.
Confronting him felt like stepping into unknown territory, a place where the rules I thought I understood no longer applied.
But there was no avoiding it. We needed answers, and he was the only one who could provide them.
The sun began to rise outside, casting long shadows across the room, a reminder that the world was moving on, even if our lives felt momentarily paused.
We knew we had to face this, together, as a family, whatever that meant now.
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