I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, when I heard loud knocking at the door.
When I opened it, he was standing there — red-faced, eyes swollen, his suitcase half open, clothes sticking out. The moment he stepped inside, he collapsed onto the couch and started crying the way I hadn’t seen him cry since he was a child.
He told me his wife had discovered everything — the messages, the dates. It all lined up perfectly with the months he had been “away on a work assignment” in another city.
And the worst part?
She found our messages too.
Messages where I urged him to be responsible… but also warned him to think about what would happen to his home if the truth came out.
I froze.
Yes — I knew about the little girl.
Her mother had contacted me a year ago, when the child turned two. She said he wasn’t responding, that she didn’t know how to reach him anymore. She didn’t want drama. She just wanted him to acknowledge the child and help with the basics.
Of course I spoke to my son.
And of course, he begged me not to say anything.
He said his marriage was fragile. They had just survived a serious crisis. If his wife found out, he would lose everything. He swore he would handle it. That he would talk to the child’s mother. That he would send money. That he just needed time.
But he did nothing.
And I let time pass.
Every time I asked him about the little girl, he calmed me with the same words:
“I’ll talk to her.”
“I’m sorting it out.”
“It’s not the right moment.”
I knew my silence was wrong.
But I was afraid I would be the one to destroy his marriage.
I told myself it wasn’t my marriage.
Not my secret.
That sooner or later, he would take responsibility.
He didn’t.
He told me his wife screamed, cried, tried to contact the child’s mother herself. There was no way to deny it — the child exists. She looks exactly like him. Laughs like him.
The moment his wife saw the photo, he broke down completely.
But the moment that hurt the most, he said, was when she screamed that I had lied too.
“How could your mother hug me all these years, knowing the truth?”
As he spoke, all I could think was how inevitable this was.
A secret he promised to fix… had now destroyed everything.
He looked at me and said he didn’t know what to do. His home was gone. His wife refused to speak to him. And his older daughter — the one he has with his wife — asked him why he needed another child when he already had her.
He asked me for advice.
I had none left to give.
I told him only this:
He must take responsibility.
He must speak to the child’s mother.
He must acknowledge the girl.
And only then — if his wife chooses — give her time.
That night, he slept in his childhood room.
I listened to him cry.
I don’t know if his wife will forgive him.
I don’t know if their marriage will survive.
But I know one thing:
This time, I will not hide anything.
The damage has already been done.
Now all that’s left is for him to be a man — and a father — not to one, but to both girls he brought into this world.
For now, his wife doesn’t want to speak to me.
And maybe she shouldn’t.
But still… he is my son.
An anonymous story from a reader
What would you say to this woman if she were standing in front of you?