My wife has two teenagers from previous marriages, rarely home, splitting time with their dad. As I neared retirement, I asked her to get a part-time job. She agreed, though looked hurt. The next day, she came home with a new blouse, beaming. Annoyed, I questioned if she’d job-hunted. She laughed—she’d landed a café job, starting tomorrow.
I was skeptical; she hadn’t consulted me. But she thrived at the café, chatting about customers and tips. Then I noticed she stopped sharing paystubs. A deposit slip from an unfamiliar bank raised suspicions. She claimed it was the café’s credit union, but I followed her. She visited an apartment complex weekly, not the café, staying briefly, leaving lighter.
Confronting her, I feared an affair. Instead, she revealed a son, Rafe, given up for adoption at 18. He’d reached out, lived in that complex, and she was supporting him with her paychecks. Stunned, I felt betrayed but understood her fear of sharing.
I met Rafe, cautious but kind, and we slowly bonded over dinners. He later shared his girlfriend Tovi’s pregnancy and their move to Michigan. After they left, a lawyer’s letter revealed Rafe inherited a cottage from his old caseworker. Visiting their new home, holding their baby Milo, I realized trust and healing come from facing the past, not burying it.
