The first line of his letter punched the air from my lungs.
Mara, I’ve been lying to you your whole life.
I blinked hard, certain I’d misread it.
I hadn’t.
I can’t stay silent anymore. I’ve carried this for over twenty years, and you deserve the truth—even if it makes you hate me.
My fingers went cold.
The living room tilted slightly, as if my body recognized a danger my mind hadn’t caught up with.
He wrote slowly, in the same messy handwriting he used on grocery lists and birthday cards.
I let you believe I was your uncle because it was easier for everyone. Because I was told it was the only way you’d be safe. And because I was afraid that if you knew the truth, you’d look at me differently.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.
I am not your uncle, Mara.
