The front door opened.
Chad’s voice filled the hallway, warm, familiar, disarmingly normal.
“Helena? You home?”
He smiled as he set his keys down in the little ceramic dish our daughter made in art class.
I placed the phone on the table between us, my voice a whisper.
“Unlock it.”
The color drained from his face. For one horrible second, I saw fear—real, visceral fear.
“It’s not what you think,” he began.
“Then unlock it,” I said again, steady but shaking.
He hesitated.
And that hesitation felt like a death sentence.
Then, finally, he pressed his thumb to the screen.
It unlocked.
I snatched the phone, scrolling.
Messages appeared—short, affectionate, intimate.
“Thank you for the cake.”
“The flowers were beautiful.”
“So excited to see you again tonight. Love you!”
My voice cracked.
“Who is she, Chad?”
He exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. But his eyes weren’t guilty. They were… wounded.
“She’s my mother, Helena.”
The words didn’t register at first.
I blinked, half-laughing in disbelief. “The hell she is.”
“She is,” he said quietly. “You know I grew up in foster care. I told you I never knew my parents.”
“Yes, but—” I started.
“She found me,” he said. “Three months ago.”
And just like that, everything shifted.
He told me about the newspaper article—how it mentioned his name, the foster care background, the station.
“She saw it,” he said, “and she just showed up one day. Said she’d been looking for me for thirty years.”
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure she was real—until I knew this wouldn’t destroy us.”
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