My Boyfriend's Secret Past With My Mother Destroyed Us All — The Truth Was Unthinkable — Part 2 of 3

I didn't go to Daddy's. I couldn't. The word had slipped out of my mouth like a reflex, but I had no idea who my father was. My mother had never told me his name, never shown me a photo. All I had was a void where a father should have been. And now, in a cruel twist, I had found him in the arms of the woman who raised me and the man I thought I loved.

I drove aimlessly for hours, my phone buzzing with calls from Marcus and my mother. I ignored them all. I needed answers, and I knew where to find them: my mother's study, the room she kept locked like a vault. I had never been inside without her, but tonight, I didn't care about the consequences.

Back at the apartment, I used the spare key I had hidden under the flowerpot. The study door was locked, but I found a paperclip in the kitchen and managed to pick the cheap knob. I was shaking as I stepped inside, the smell of old paper and lavender filling my nostrils.

On the desk, in plain sight, was a photo of my mother and a man I didn't recognize. They were young, laughing, their arms wrapped around each other. The man had my eyes. He had my smile. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that he was my father.

Beneath the photo was a birth certificate. My birth certificate. My father's name was on it, but it had been crossed out with black marker. Beside it, in my mother's handwriting, were the words: "Never speak of him."

My hands trembled as I dialed Marcus's number. He answered on the first ring.

"Maya, where are you?" His voice was desperate, raw.

"Who is my father, Marcus?" I asked, my voice cold. "And how do you know him?"

There was a long pause. Then Marcus spoke, his voice breaking. "Your father is my father. We're brothers, Maya. Half-brothers. I didn't know it was you. I swear to God, I didn't know."

I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "This can't be real. This can't be happening." I looked at the photo again, at the man who was my father and his son, my boyfriend. "Why didn't my mother ever tell me?"

"Because she hated my father," Marcus said. "And she hated me for being his son. She must have put two and two together when she saw me walk in tonight."

"Why would you even date me if you knew?" I shouted. "Why would you do this?"

"I didn't know!" Marcus yelled back. "I met you on a dating app. I didn't know you were her daughter. I didn't know anything about you except that I loved you."

"Love?" I spat. "You can't love your sister."

The word hung in the air, heavy and ugly. Neither of us spoke for a long moment. I could hear him breathing, and I could feel my own heart cracking in my chest.

"We need to talk to your mother," Marcus finally said. "We need to understand why she kept this from you."

"She kept it from me because she's a liar," I said. "She kept me from my father. She kept me from my own brother. And now I've slept with him." I was sobbing, unable to control the tears. "I've ruined my life."

"Don't say that," Marcus whispered. "We can fix this. We can—"

"Fix this?" I laughed bitterly. "There's no fixing this. I'm going to the police. I'm going to tell them everything."

"The police won't care," Marcus said. "This isn't a crime. It's just a terrible, terrible mistake."

"It's not a mistake," I said. "It's a betrayal. And I'm going to make sure everyone knows what she did."

I hung up before he could respond. I stared at the photo, at the man who was my father, and I felt a rage I had never known. My mother had taken everything from me. She had taken my father, my brother, and now my future. And I was going to make her pay.

I pulled out my phone and called the one person I knew would help me: the private investigator across town. I had his number from a case I worked on last year at the law firm. I told him I needed a full background check on my mother, and I gave him her name. He promised to get back to me within twenty-four hours.

I sat in the dark study, surrounded by my mother's secrets, and I made a decision. I was going to find my father. I was going to meet him. And I was going to watch my mother's world crumble around her, one truth at a time.

The next morning, I found him. His name was David Mercer, and he lived in a small town three hours away. I didn't tell him who I was. I just said I was writing an article about family histories and wanted to interview him. He agreed to meet me at a café.

When I walked in, I saw him sitting at a corner table, looking just like the photo. He was older now, with gray hair and deep lines on his face, but his eyes were the same. My eyes. I sat down across from him, and I could see him studying me, a flicker of recognition in his gaze.

"You have your mother's smile," he said softly. "But you have my eyes."

I felt my breath catch. "You know who I am."

"I've always known," he said. "I've been waiting for you to find me."

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. All I could do was stare at the man who was my father, and wonder if I was ready for the truth he was about to tell me.