I’m Dorothy, 63, and my kids, Miley and Ryan, have been my rock since their father, Simon, left us. For my 63rd birthday, I sent them heartfelt invitations, eager for their hugs. But as the day passed with no sign of them, my hope faded. A delivery arrived—a cake with the words, “WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID.” My heart raced, wondering who knew the truth I’d hidden about Simon’s troubled life.
Simon was consumed by gambling and alcohol, owing money to dangerous people. One night, he left to “fix it” and was found dead in a crash at Miller’s Gorge, ruled an accident. I kept my suspicions quiet to protect my kids. That night, Miley and Ryan arrived, shaken, with notes saying, “Ask your mother about your father.” I told them everything—his struggles, the threats, my doubts. They held my hands, saying, “We trust you, Mom.” We saw a stranger deliver the cake on our doorbell footage, but the police found no answers. Sharing the truth brought us closer, proving honesty heals more than secrets hide.
Years later, I faced a different hurt. I’d saved for a Maui trip to celebrate my 10th anniversary with my husband, Wade. But a week before, his mom, who never pitched in, complained about needing a break. Wade suggested she take my ticket, dismissing my objections as dramatic. Stung but strategic, I gave up my ticket—then changed all bookings to his mom’s name, sticking Wade in a noisy, rundown motel.
When Wade called, outraged, I said, “Don’t call me dramatic again.” I treated myself to a solo Oregon wine country getaway, relaxing in peace. Back home, Wade apologized sincerely, leaving flowers. I stayed with my sister, rediscovering myself. Now, Wade’s working on himself in therapy, and we’re planning a new trip for just us, with me in charge. I learned secrets divide, but standing up for myself builds strength and respect.
