I Found Out the Truth After the Funeral

BY{bakhto khan}

I saw her at the back of the chapel. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak to anyone. She just stood there, staring at the casket like she knew him better than the rest of us. At first, I thought she was someone from my father’s work, or maybe a distant relative I didn’t recognize.

But she wasn’t.

Three days after the funeral, a letter arrived. No return address. Just my name on the front, in careful handwriting. Inside was a photo of my father — younger, smiling — standing beside the woman from the funeral. In the photo, he had his arm around a little boy.

The note read:

"I’m sorry you had to find out this way. His name is Jacob. He’s your brother. Please don’t hate him for your father’s choices."

I sat in silence for a long time. My father and I were never close, but I never imagined he was living a double life. I confronted my mother, but the look on her face told me she already knew. She had known for years. She had forgiven him, or at least chosen to pretend.

That night, I searched for Jacob on Facebook. There he was — twenty years old, same crooked smile, same eyes. He didn’t know I existed. Or maybe he did, and stayed away.

I didn’t message him.

Not yet.

I visit my father’s grave now and then, not to talk — just to sit. I try to remember the man I thought he was. The fishing trips. The quiet dinners. The birthday cards signed “Love, Dad” like it was simple.

But nothing feels simple now.

Some days I wonder if he loved us both. Or if one of us was just the lie he told to keep the other. I may never know.

But I do know this: the dead can’t explain themselves. And the living are left to carry the weight of what they never said.