When I arrived, I paused on the front porch, nerves fluttering like they used to on the first day of school. The screen door was ajar, and I could hear Gary’s voice from the kitchen, laughing into a phone call.
I wasn’t eavesdropping. I hadn’t intended to listen. But then I heard him say:
The air left my lungs.
He laughed again. “And the kid? Just part of the deal. Made pancakes, went to school plays—it was all for show.”
I stood frozen. The man I was about to thank—the man I believed had filled the space my father left behind—had been performing. For ten years. Every birthday, every meal, every quiet moment of kindness. Manufactured.
Then came the worst of it.
“Her real dad? He wrote letters for years. Wanted to come back, reconnect. I trashed every single one.”
I felt the world tilt. I didn’t even know he’d written. Letters from my father—thrown away, unread, hidden from me forever.
The Confrontation
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