He never changed the story. Not once.
After that, he became my entire world.
He packed my lunches. Sat in the front row at school plays. Taught me how to ride a bike, how to change a tire, how to stand up for myself without being cruel. Whenever anyone asked about me, he always said, "That's my daughter," like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I never doubted his love.
Not once.
So when he got sick years later, I moved closer. When he needed help, I was there. And when he passed away at 78, it felt like losing the only parent I'd ever truly had.
The funeral was quiet. Respectful. Full of people telling me how lucky I was to have had him.
Then, an older man I didn't recognize approached me.
He didn't offer condolences. He leaned in and spoke softly, like he didn't want anyone else to hear.
"Check the bottom drawer in your stepfather's garage if you want the truth about what really happened to your mom," he said.
Then he walked away.
I stood there frozen, his words echoing louder than the organ music behind me.
So when I returned to the house he had left me after the funeral, I couldn't stop myself.
I went straight to the garage.
And opened the bottom drawer of his workbench.
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