My Father Married My Aunt After My Mom’s Death – Then at the Wedding, My Brother Said, ‘Dad Isn’t Who He Pretends to Be’

Robert glanced back at the reception hall, then lowered his voice. “Mom.”

“You missed the ceremony. You look like you ran here.”

I stared at him.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking. I swear to you.”

“You’re saying Mom told you something… after she died?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Before.”

We stood near a row of coat racks, half-hidden by tall plants. People passed nearby, smiling, unaware that my entire body felt like it was about to collapse.

“I’m not joking. I swear to you.”

“A lawyer called me this morning. I almost didn’t answer. I thought it was spam.”

“And?”

“And he knew Mom’s name. Knew her illness. Knew the exact date she died.”

My mouth went dry.

“He said Mom asked him to contact me when Dad remarried,” my brother continued. “Specifically, when Dad married Laura.”

I felt a cold line crawl down my spine.

“He said Mom asked him to contact me when Dad remarried.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she—”

“She found out,” Robert cut in.

“Found out what?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. Thick. Cream-colored. Sealed.

“She wrote this when she already knew she was dying. She asked him to keep it until the right moment.”

My eyes locked onto the envelope.

He pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. Thick. Cream-colored. Sealed.

“What’s in it?”

“The truth about Dad.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Dad stayed. He took care of her. He was there every day.”

“That’s what she thought too,” my brother said quietly.

“Read it,” I whispered.

“I can’t. Not here. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Read it.”

“Because once you know, you won’t be able to un-know it.”

A burst of laughter came from inside. Someone called my name.

“Claire! They’re about to cut the cake!”

I didn’t move.

“What did Mom find out?” I asked again.

Robert rubbed his face like he was trying to wake himself up.

“What did Mom find out?”

“She realized Dad had been lying to her for years. Not about little things. About his entire life.”

“That’s vague on purpose,” I snapped. “Stop doing that.”

He looked at me then. “Do you remember how Laura suddenly moved closer to us when Mom got sick?”

“Yes. She said she wanted to help.”

“And how Dad always insisted she stay? How was she always around when Mom wasn’t feeling well?”

“Stop doing that.”

“Grief makes people cling,” I said, even though my voice lacked conviction.

continued on next page

For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.