It was a busy Thursday when my doorbell camera war:ned me to a delivery man with a puzzling package.
Thinking it was something from my husband Mark, I was baffled when he texted back, “No, what delivery?”
Watching the footage again, the delivery man’s sly smile and dark words “Enjoy your surprise, Mrs. Thompson” left me worried. I had no idea this small moment would alter everything.
That night, Mark and I opened the box together.
Inside was a rare silk scarf and a note: “For our special memories. More to come.” Mark seemed confused and asked who would send such a thing. I had no clue either, but a weird sense of dread descended upon me, making me question everything I thought I knew.
The next morning, while Mark was out jogging, I ejected for answers. Facing our finances, I explored charges for a boutique hotel downtown, somewhere Mark and I had never been together. I decided to research, checking into the hotel under Mark’s name. Voices from the next room froze me my father was there, speaking quietly with a woman.
What I knew destr0yed my world: my father was having a long-term aff:air with a woman from his past, and they had a son I never knew.
That son had sent the package, a considered move to show the truth.
The scarf and note was owned by the woman, symbols of a secret love meant to damage our family’s façade. The fallout wrecked my parents’ marriage and my own with Mark, who had kept silent. We left everything behind and moved to a quiet coastal town to start healing.
