When I returned to my late father’s house, I thought I was ready to say goodbye. But instead, I found a hidden list with my name on it—unraveling secrets about my family and changing everything I thought I knew about myself.
I opened the old door, the house dusty and silent. I was there to clear out his things, but I hoped to find something to remember him by. In his bedroom, I discovered a piece of paper in my childhood book. It listed my name and four others: Cecilia, Robert, John, and Margaret.
I called my mom. She didn’t want to talk about it, but I couldn’t ignore it. The names matched victims of a factory fire years ago, one my father had been involved in. There was a photo of Dad and “Aunt Susan,” whose real name was Cecilia.
I went to Aunt Susan, who revealed a painful truth: my real parents died in that fire. Dad had taken me in as his own. I had been living a lie.
Heartbroken and confused, I left to find some clarity. Eventually, I returned to my mother’s house, where I burned the list. It was time to let go of Dad’s burden. I was ready to face the truth, no matter how hard.