I called my mom and told her everything. She went silent, then shouted, “The lake house? We sold that a year ago!” Her shock matched the confusion growing inside me. Twenty minutes later, she picked me up, both of us trying to piece together what could possibly be going on. As we drove through quiet neighborhoods, she explained that lately my dad had seemed distracted but never hinted at wanting to leave. Her guess? The woman he’d been messaging, someone she believed was just an old friend reconnecting. The idea unsettled me, not because we were sure of anything, but because it introduced a possibility no one wanted to face. Still, we pressed on, driven by worry rather than suspicion.
We arrived at a house my mother remembered from a previous gathering. My dad’s car sat in the driveway, its headlights still faintly warm. My mom didn’t knock—she walked straight to the door, calling his name. Inside, the unfamiliar living room felt strangely peaceful, with soft music playing in the background. My dad appeared from the hallway, surprised but not defensive. And beside him stood the woman he had been messaging. But instead of confrontation, what unfolded was a conversation none of us expected. The woman calmly explained that she had contacted my father because she had found old letters he had written decades earlier—letters from a time before he met my mother. They had reconnected only to reflect on that long-past chapter of their youth. There had been no betrayal, only memories resurfacing that had stirred emotions he didn’t know how to express. Continue reading…
