The Letter With No Return Address
It was a plain envelope.
No return address. No explanation. Just my name and my home.
Inside was one page, written in shaky handwriting I recognized instantly.
“Ethan, I am so sorry. The truth is finally out. Please let us explain.”
—Mom
I sat on the couch for a long time staring at it.
Rusty rested his head on my knee like he could feel something old waking up.
I didn’t know what had changed.
I only knew something had cracked.
The Voicemail That Didn’t Sound Like Him
Two weeks later, my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number.
I ignored it.
Then the voicemail notification popped up.
It was my father’s voice.
Older. Rougher. Unsteady in a way I’d never heard before.
“Son… we need to see you. We owe you the truth.”
Sleep didn’t happen that night.
For ten years, I’d pictured this moment in fantasies: me slamming the door, me yelling, me demanding every detail.
Instead, I felt frozen.
Anger, relief, dread—everything arrived at once like an accident you can’t look away from.
The Knock
Three days later, there was a soft knock at my front door.
Rusty barked once, then went still.
When I looked through the peephole, my stomach dropped.
My parents stood on the porch.
Ten years older. Ten years worn down.
And between them stood Sofia.
Her eyes looked hollow.
Like someone who had been carrying a secret heavy enough to bend her spine.
My father knocked again. “Ethan… please.”
I didn’t open the door.
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