
To me, my father was perfect. A traveling businessman, yet always made time for me. My parents kept family dinners a priority, grounding me while my friends dealt with divorces.
One day, after joking to my mom that divorce seemed “trendy,” everything changed. My dad left for a trip and never came back. My mom told me he’d passed unexpectedly, with no funeral—just a quiet scattering of ashes at the beach, per his wishes.
I was heartbroken, but accepted it, trusting my mother.
Years later, while returning from a family trip, I found a note from her: “Watch this, Cassie. I’m sorry.” I played the video—and there he was. My father. Alive.
In the recording, he explained that he had to disappear due to a dark truth. He asked me to seek answers from my mother.
I rushed to her, demanding the truth. She confessed: she and my dad were never legally married. He already had a wife and another family in another town. When she found out, she forced him out of our lives, faking his death to protect me from heartbreak and betrayal.
We never spread his ashes—just dust. And she’d kept the secret all these years, only revealing it after learning he was terminally ill and wanted to see me.
I visited him. We spent his final days together, sharing stories and regrets. I even brought my son to meet him before he passed.
I still don’t know if I’ve fully forgiven him. Or her. But in those final moments, all I wanted was time—and I got it. Now, I’m left sorting through the lies and love, and wondering if forgiveness will ever come.
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