My name is Dorothy, and after 63 years, I’ve had a joyful life with my two children. For my 63rd birthday, I invited them to celebrate in person. I was excited, but as the hours passed, they didn’t show. I stared at two empty chairs and felt the familiar emptiness.
Then, a delivery arrived—a cake with a chilling message: WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID. My heart stopped. Memories surfaced about my late husband Simon. I always said he left because he couldn’t handle responsibility, but the truth was darker. Simon had debts, dangerous people threatened us, and one night he vanished after promising to “fix it.” His death was ruled an accident, but I’ve wondered if it was more.
Later, my children arrived, holding a letter urging them to ask what really happened to their father. I told them everything I’d kept hidden, hoping to protect them but realizing silence had built walls.
Though the past is painful, sharing it brought us closer. Sometimes honesty is the hardest but most healing path.
