I’m Dorothy. I’ve lived 63 years—some hard, some beautiful—but my two children, Miley and Ryan, have always been the heart of it all. Life wasn’t easy, but it was ours.
As my birthday approached, I felt a flicker of joy I hadn’t felt in a while. I sent them both handwritten invitations—no calls, no texts. I didn’t want a birthday wish over the phone. I wanted to see them. Hug them. Tell them everything I’d been holding in.
The day came, and with every passing car, my heart leapt—only to crash again when no one walked up to the door. Two empty chairs sat at my table, mocking my hope.
I stared at an old lake photo of us—me holding both kids, all smiles. But the torn corner of the picture tugged at a memory I never wanted to revisit.
I tried calling them. No answer.
Then the doorbell rang. My heart raced. But instead of my children, it was a delivery man holding a small white box.
Inside? A beautiful birthday cake. But the message written on top stopped my heart cold:
“WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID.”
I froze.
Who was “we”? What did they think I’d done?
Old shadows returned. Memories I’d buried.
Years ago, when the kids were still little, their father, Simon, vanished. I always told them he’d abandoned us—left when things got hard.
But the truth was more complicated.
Simon had fallen into addiction—gambling, drinking, trouble with dangerous people. One night, men came to our house. Threatening us.
Simon left that night, swearing he’d fix things. By morning, police found his car in Miller’s Gorge. Declared an accident.
But deep down, I always wondered… Was it really?
That secret weighed on me. And now, someone clearly knew.
Later that day, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was them.
Miley’s eyes were red. Ryan stood behind her, tense and pale.
They stepped inside without a word.
Ryan held out a crumpled envelope. “This came for both of us a few days ago. No return address. Just one sentence: ‘Ask your mother what really happened to your father.’”
Then Miley whispered, “Today we got the same cake too.”
Everything inside me cracked.
I sat them down. And for the first time in decades, I told them the truth—the gambling, the threats, the night Simon disappeared.
When I finished, Miley looked at me through tears. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”
“No,” I said, my voice firm. “But I kept the truth from you. I thought I was protecting you. Maybe I was wrong.”
Ryan exhaled slowly. “You should’ve told us.”
“I know,” I said. “But I just wanted you to have peace.”
Miley reached for my hand. “We believe you, Mom.”
That night, Ryan checked the doorbell footage. The man who delivered the cake? Not a regular courier. No logo. Unfamiliar face. We reported it. The police never found him.
Who sent those messages? Someone from Simon’s past? Or just a twisted stranger who knew too much?
We may never find out.
But something unexpected happened: the truth didn’t tear us apart—it brought us closer.
The secret was gone.
And with it, the weight I’d carried for so long.