The very next morning, my father walked into the kitchen for breakfast as if absolutely nothing unusual had happened the night before. He cracked jokes with Chloe, piled extra hash browns onto her plate, and offered her a warm smile.
“You are a true daughter in this house now, not just a guest,” he said cheerfully.
I could barely force myself to look him in the eye.
A few hours later, while we were clearing the heavy wooden tables out in the yard, my uncle Patrick approached me. He was my father’s younger brother, and he looked visibly uneasy as he stepped closer.
“Did you happen to walk out into the main hallway late last night?” he asked quietly.
I stared back at him in total surprise.
“Why are you asking me about that?” I asked.
My uncle lowered his voice down to a whisper.
“Because I distinctly heard the back door of your dad’s room open late last night,” he said.
I felt a sharp blow directly in my chest.
“There was definitely a woman in there,” I confessed to him.
Patrick’s face drained of color in a matter of seconds.
“Did you actually see who she was?” he demanded.
“No, I could not see her face,” I admitted.
Patrick clenched his jaw tight and glanced over toward the driveway where my father was standing.
“Brandon,” he whispered gravely. “That back door did not just start opening last night.”
I felt as though the floor beneath my feet had completely vanished.
And I still could not bring myself to believe what was about to unfold next.
PART 2
That heavy sentence from my uncle haunted my mind all through the afternoon.
“How long have you actually known about this?” I confronted him out near the workshop.
“I do not know anything for absolute certain,” Patrick tried to dodge.
“Do not sit there and lie to me,” I snapped back firmly.
Patrick remained entirely silent for a long moment.
My father was standing just a few yards away, laughing with a group of relatives as if the entire world were still completely perfect.
That very night, I made up my mind to go check the hallway myself.
Chloe fell asleep fast right beside me in the bed. Around midnight, I heard the latch on the side garden gate open very discreetly.
A few seconds later, I heard the creak of the back door to my father’s bedroom.
This time, Chloe was lying right next to me under the covers.
There was absolutely no way to confuse her with anyone else now.
I walked barefoot down the dark hallway and tiptoed close to the crack in the door.
I heard my father’s low voice inside.
“I specifically told you not to come over here tonight,” he grumbled angrily.
A woman’s voice immediately answered him.
“I sent you several messages earlier,” she argued back softly. “I assumed everybody in the house was already fast asleep.”
I recognized that voice in an instant.
It belonged to Paula Stevens, a widow in her late forties who ran a small bakery stand near the local town market. Her husband had passed away three years ago, and my mother had even given her fresh garden produce on multiple occasions because she always said a single woman needed extra support.
I shoved the bedroom door wide open.
Paula was standing right next to the bed frame.
My father leaped up from the mattress, looking furious.
“Get out of here right now,” he barked at her.
“What did you just say?” she asked in absolute shock.
“Get out of my room,” he repeated firmly.
I let out a bitter laugh born out of pure rage.
“Your room?” I snapped at him. “This room is inside the exact house where my mother sleeps every single night.”
Paula quickly slipped out through the back door without daring to look me in the eye.
I turned back to my father.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
My father did not even attempt to offer an apology.
“That is none of your business,” he declared harshly.
“I am your son,” I reminded him.
“Precisely,” he said, stepping closer to me. “And if you truly are my son, you are going to keep your mouth shut.”
I stared at him, completely failing to understand his attitude.
