The next morning, I drove out to the garage. It was in the old industrial district, behind a row of crumbling buildings with rusted roofs and weeds curling through cracked asphalt. Not exactly the kind of place you’d expect a man like Thomas to keep anything.
But he came here once a week, every Thursday. Like clockwork. I never questioned it.
The metal door was heavier than I expected. The key turned with a reluctant groan. And for a moment, I stood there, afraid of what I might find on the other side.
It smelled like dust and oil. I reached for the light switch. And then, I froze.
It wasn’t a garage. It wasn’t tools or boxes or car parts. It was a shrine, to a life I never knew existed.
I took a slow step inside. The fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead. Casting a pale glow over the strangest room I had ever seen.
The walls were covered, completely covered, in photographs, news clippings, hand-drawn charts, and travel maps. On one wall, dozens of printed photos were pinned in neat rows like some sort of obsessive collage. And every single one of them had Thomas in it.
But not the Thomas the first knew. In these pictures, he wasn’t wearing his usual tailored suits or polished demeanor. He looked different.
Relaxed. Worn jeans, casual shirts, messy hair. His face was softer.
His posture less guarded. And in almost every photo, he was standing beside a woman. The same woman.
She was beautiful. Younger than me by at least ten years. With dark hair and sharp, intelligent eyes.
They were close. Too close. Her hand on his arm.
His face turned toward her with a smile I hadn’t seen in years. In one photo, they were at the beach. Another, in a ski lodge.
Then one at a candlelit dinner. There were time stamps handwritten on the back of some of them. Seven years ago.
Five. Three. One from just a few months ago.
August, 2024. That one stopped me cold. Because on that day, I was at home, cooking his favorite meal.
Waiting for him to return from a client meeting. And now I was looking at a photograph of him sitting beside this woman. And a man in his early thirties.
The three of them were smiling. Like a family. There was a name scribbled faintly on the back in Thomas’ handwriting.
Isabel and Logan. August, 2024. My knees buckled.
I reached for the metal desk in the center of the room to study myself. That’s when I saw the papers. Files stacked high.
Bank transfers, corporate records. Letters from overseas firms. Tax documents that didn’t match anything I knew about his business.
And in one folder, a medical report. My eyes scanned the header. Crescent Heart Institute.
It was dated less than two months ago. I found Thomas’ full name printed at the top. Followed by a diagnosis I could barely pronounce.
Ischemic heart disease. Stage three. Risk of cardiac arrest.
High. He knew. He knew he was dying.
He knew. And instead of talking to me, instead of preparing me, instead of even hinting at the truth, he spent his last days building some secret world with another woman. Another life.
Another child. Because that’s what the young man in the photo had to be. Their son.
My stomach turned. Fifteen years. Fifteen years I stood by him.
And now, the man I’d buried wasn’t my husband. Not really. He was a stranger.
A stranger who had looked me in the eye the night before he died. Handed me a velvet box with a sapphire necklace inside. Kissed my cheek and told me, You’re the only one for me.
I staggered back toward the door. I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight, my mind spinning.
What was I supposed to do with this? Who even was I now? A widow, yes. But of whom? That’s when I heard it. Footsteps.
Soft. Hesitant. Like someone didn’t want to be heard.
I turned around fast, heart slamming against my ribs. And standing in the open doorway was the young man from the photo. Same dark hair.
Same sharp jawline. Same intense, unreadable eyes. His voice was calm when he spoke.
But my pulse pounded in my ears too loudly to really absorb the words at first. Vivian Carter, he asked. I didn’t answer.
I thought you might come here. I’m Logan Myers, he said, stepping inside slowly. Thomas Carter was my father.
And just like that, the floor disappeared beneath me. I don’t remember what I said first. Maybe nothing.
Maybe I just stood there, gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Logan stepped forward, calm but cautious, like he knew this was fragile territory. I stared at him, not just seeing him, but searching.
There was no doubt. His eyes, they were Thomas’s. Same intense gaze.
Same silence that said more than words ever could. You, you’re really his son. I finally managed to whisper.
Yes, Logan replied without hesitation. And I’m sorry. I never wanted you to find out like this.
How long did you know about me? I asked, my voice barely above a breath. My whole life, he said, with no trace of apology. He didn’t tell me much.
