**THE OTHER WOMAN’S ADDRESS WAS IN DAD’S WALLET.**
The will reading was a disaster. Aunt Carol screamed about the vacation house being unfairly bequeathed to my brother. Dad always favored him, she spat.
I didn’t care about the house. I was emptying Dad’s wallet, looking for cash to pay the parking. Then I saw it: a folded piece of paper with a name and address scrawled on it. Not Mom’s handwriting.
My hands trembled. ⬇️
My hands trembled. The address was in a quiet, elegant neighborhood, a world away from our modest suburban home. The name, ‘Isabelle Dubois,’ felt like a betrayal etched in cold ink. Isabelle. The name echoed in my head, a foreign melody playing against the mournful strains of Dad’s funeral dirge. I felt a cold dread bloom in my chest, a bitter taste of unfamiliar territory.
That night, sleep evaded me. Isabelle’s address pulsed in my mind like a second heartbeat. I imagined her: younger than Mom, vibrant, maybe even… happy. The thought twisted a knife in my gut. Mom, stoic and grieving, wouldn’t shed a tear in public, but I’d seen the subtle tremor in her hand as she clutched a faded photo of Dad. The image of her pain fueled my resolve. I had to know.
The next day, I drove to Isabelle’s address, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Her house was a charming Victorian, bathed in sunlight, the antithesis of the somber atmosphere that clung to my life. Hesitantly, I rang the doorbell.
Isabelle answered, a woman radiating warmth and vitality. She had Dad’s eyes – kind, intelligent, with a hint of mischief. For a moment, I was speechless, stunned by the resemblance, the undeniable familial connection. But then, the anger flared.
“You knew him?” I demanded, my voice raw with accusation.
Isabelle’s smile faltered. “Yes,” she said softly, her voice laced with a tremor that mirrored my own. “We… we had a connection. A long one.”
I pressed her, my questions sharp and accusatory, forcing details from her that painted a picture far more complex than I’d imagined. It wasn’t a simple affair. It was a secret shared over years, a deep friendship that had blossomed into something more during Mom’s prolonged illness. Dad had been torn, Isabelle explained, his guilt evident in the trembling of her hands as she spoke. He’d planned to tell Mom, she claimed, but he’d never found the courage.
Just as I began to feel a sliver of understanding, a police car screeched to a halt outside. A uniformed officer approached, his face grim. “Isabelle Dubois?” he asked. “We need you to come with us.”
My blood ran cold. Isabelle’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then, fear. She looked at me, a desperate plea in her gaze. The officer explained that she was a suspect in a financial crime, a large sum of money embezzled from a charity. Evidence pointed towards her. Isabelle vehemently denied it, her words choked with fear and desperation.
The unexpected twist was devastating. The address, the secret relationship, the seemingly idyllic life – it was all a smokescreen, a carefully constructed facade concealing a darker truth. My anger towards Dad evaporated, replaced by a profound sorrow. I realized that he hadn’t been a villain; he’d been a man caught in a web of unspoken complexities and lies. Isabelle, now a suspect in a criminal act, was more victim than home-wrecker. As the police led her away, I was left standing on her doorstep, the scent of lilies and betrayal hanging heavy in the air. The truth remained elusive, the complexities of my father’s life and Isabelle’s predicament leaving me with more questions than answers, a haunting sense of incompleteness that echoed the unanswered questions of my own heart.