“I had a baby at seventeen,” Mom admitted, tears blurring her eyes. “Before I met your father. His name is Gerard. I kept him until he was five, then gave him up. It got easier to pretend he didn’t exist—until six months ago.”
She explained how Gerard had tracked her down, demanding money. Items went missing: Dad’s watch, her grandmother’s ring. “Last month, he left this money and the phone with me. Said people might come. Then he disappeared.”
I powered on the flip phone. Three percent battery, mostly unknown numbers, except one saved contact: G. I dialed it.
A rough, tired voice answered. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Jeremy. Lisa’s son.”
A pause. Then softer: “Jeremy… you’re my little brother.”
We met the next day at Murphy’s Diner. Gerard looked like a mirror image of me—same dark hair, same jawline, older and hardened. Sliding into the booth, he studied me.
“You look like her,” he said.
“You look like me,” I replied.
He pulled out a badge. “I’m a cop. Eastside PD. Undercover. I got in too deep with a crew—drugs, money laundering. The cash is evidence and my savings. I asked Mom to hide it to keep her safe. The case wrapped last week.”
“She hid it in the sink,” I muttered.
He winced. “I’ll fix it and tell her everything.”
That evening, the three of us sat around the kitchen table. Gerard filled in the gaps of his story. Mom cried, finally releasing the burden she’d carried for decades.
“I’m sorry I gave you up,” she whispered.
Gerard took her hand. “You did what you had to. So did I.”
He crouched under the sink, replaced the pipes, tightened the nuts. Water flowed strong again. We washed dishes together, passing plates down the line.
Secrets, I realized, are like mushrooms—they thrive in the dark, feeding on shame. But the truth forces its way into the light, even from a corroded pipe.
Now, Gerard and I meet every Sunday for coffee. Last week, he grinned at me. “Maybe you teach me to make one of your travel vlogs. My stories could rival yours.”
I raised my cup. “To new beginnings.”
“And to old recipes,” he added.
From the kitchen, Mom called: “Boys! Dinner!” Potato soup, extra thyme, three bowls waiting. Some things, I realized, are worth coming home for.
