Diane’s POV
The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting shadows across the room as I slowly drifted to consciousness. My eyes felt swollen and raw, the aftermath of crying myself to sleep. For one blissful mont, I existed in that liminal space between dreaming and waking, where yesterday’s revelations hadn’t yet resurged in my mind.
Then reality crashed back.
My father wasn’t dead. He never had been.
Every mory, every tear I’d shed at his imaginary grave, every Father’s Day card I’d written and tucked away in my childhood drawer—all of it based on a lie that had shaped my entire existence.
A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
"Diane?" Joan’s gentle voice ca from the other side of the door. "Are you awake?"
I didn’t answer imdiately, unsure if I was ready to face another day in this new, fractured reality. But the twins gave a particularly strong kick, as if urging forward.
"Yeah," I finally called out, my voice hoarse from last night’s sobbing. "Co in."
The door opened slowly, revealing Joan balancing a breakfast tray in her hands. Her kind eyes imdiately assessed my state, taking in my puffy face and disheveled appearance without judgnt.
"I thought you might want to eat up here this morning," she said, stepping inside. "Avoid the downstairs drama for a bit longer."
I pushed myself up against the headboard, wincing as my back protested. At nearly getting into my 3rd trister, every movent required effort.
"Did he leave last night?" I asked, unable to bring myself to say "my father" or even "Andrew." Both nas felt like strangers on my tongue.
Joan shook her head as she placed the tray on the nightstand. "No, he left last night after you went upstairs. Your mother slept on the couch."
I stared at the tray—toast, scrambled eggs, orange juice, and prenatal vitamins neatly arranged. Such normalcy amidst the chaos felt almost obscene.
"I ca back to check on you last night," Joan continued, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You were already asleep, so I just covered you with a blanket."
I glanced down at the soft throw that had kept warm through the night. Another small kindness I hadn’t fully registered until now.
"Thank you," I whispered, tears welling up again. It seed my body had an endless supply, ready to spill at the slightest provocation. "For everything, Joan. I don’t know what I would do without you right now."
I reached out and squeezed her hand, trying to convey the depth of my gratitude through that simple touch. Joan had been my rock—first through the heartbreak of Liam and Sophie’s betrayal, and now through this new, even more profound deception. She’d opened her ho to , stood by , never once adding to my burden with judgnt or demands.
Joan simply smiled, squeezing my hand back. "You’d do the sa for ." She gestured toward the tray. "Now, eat up. You need to keep your strength, especially after last night. Those babies need you strong."
I nodded, knowing she was right. Whatever storm raged in my heart, my children needed nourishnt. I had to keep going, if only for them.
"I think I’ll shower first," I said, throwing back the covers. "Will you wait? I won’t be long."
"Of course," Joan replied, settling into the armchair by the window. "Take your ti."
In the bathroom, I let the hot water cascade over , washing away the salt tracks of yesterday’s tears. I wished it could be so easy to cleanse away the pain, the betrayal, the sense of disorientation that ca from having your foundation ripped out from under you. But so stains ran too deep for water to touch.
As I toweled off and slipped into fresh maternity clothes, I caught sight of my reflection in the steamy mirror. My mother’s eyes stared back at . And now, looking more closely, I could see traces of him too—Andrew. My father. The slight cleft in my chin. The shape of my brow. Features I’d never known the origin of, now suddenly mapped onto a face I’d only just t.
I traced the outline of my face with trembling fingers. Who was I, really? The daughter of a dead hero, as I’d always believed? Or the abandoned child of a man who’d chosen his addiction over his family? The lines of my identity, once so clearly drawn, now blurred into an impressionist painting—familiar shapes rendered unrecognizable by new perspective.
When I erged from the bathroom, Joan was still waiting patiently. She’d arranged the breakfast tray on the small table by the window and pulled up a second chair.
"Feeling any better?" she asked as I joined her.
"Cleaner," I replied, forcing a small smile. "Not sure about better."
I picked at the food, taking small bites more out of obligation than hunger. Joan didn’t push, didn’t fill the silence with platitudes or advice. She just sat with in my pain, a quiet sentinel against the storm.
"Have you thought about what you want to do?" she asked finally, after I’d managed to eat half the eggs and most of the toast.
I shook my head. "There’s too much to process. I can’t even—" My voice caught. "I don’t know who I am anymore, Joan.
Everything I thought I knew about myself, my family history, my childhood—it was all built on this massive lie."
"You’re still you," Joan said firmly. "The person you’ve beco—that’s real. Your compassion, your strength, your resilience. Those things weren’t built on lies."
I wanted to believe her, but doubt gnawed at . "But what if they were? What if I only beca this person because I thought my father died a hero? What if the truth had been there from the beginning—would I even be the sa person?"
"We’ll never know," Joan admitted. "But that doesn’t change who you are now, in this mont. And right now, you’re a woman who’s been hurt deeply but is still standing. Still fighting."
I reached for the prenatal vitamins, swallowing them with a sip of orange juice. As I set down the glass, a soft knock sounded at the door.
My body tensed imdiately. "Who is it?"
"It’s... it’s , Diane." My mother’s voice, hesitant and small, filtered through the door.
"Can I co in? Please?"
I turned to Joan, panic rising in my chest. I wasn’t ready for this confrontation. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Before I could respond, the door opened slowly. My mother stood in the threshold, a ghostly version of the woman I’d known all my life. Her eyes were red-rimd and swollen, with deep shadows beneath them that spoke of a sleepless night. Her normally neat appearance was disheveled, her gray-streaked hair falling limply around her pale face.
The sight of her—so broken, so vulnerable—should have sparked my compassion. Instead, it only fueled the anger simring just beneath my skin.
"Please, leave my room," I said, my voice tight with suppressed emotion.
She took a tentative step forward, her hand outstretched as if to bridge the chasm between us. "I just wanted to check on you, honey. I’m so sor—"
"You’re what?" I spat, cutting her off before she could finish. The anger that had been building inside suddenly erupted.
"Sorry? You’re sorry? For what, exactly? For lying to every single day of my life? For making grieve a father who wasn’t even dead? For letting believe I was sothing I wasn’t?"
Joan placed a calming hand on my arm. "Diane, maybe you should hear her out—"
"No!" I shrugged away from her touch, rising from my chair despite the protest from my swollen ankles. "She had twenty-nine years to tell the truth, Joan. Twenty-nine years of opportunities. But what did she do? She deceived . She lied to my face, over and over again."
I turned back to my mother, who stood frozen in place, tears streaming down her lined face. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you understand what it feels like to have your entire identity shattered overnight?"
"I thought I was protecting you," she whispered, voice trembling. "I thought it would hurt less to believe he was dead than to know he chose to leave."
"That wasn’t your decision to make!" I shouted, the volu of my voice startling even . "You robbed of the truth. You robbed of the chance to decide for myself how to feel about him."
My mother’s face crumpled. "I know. I made a terrible mistake. But you have to understand, Diane, I was desperate. I was alone with two small children, no ho, no money, nothing. I was angry and hurt and—"
"So you used that as an excuse to lie? To fabricate an entire false history for your children?" I shook my head in disbelief.
"Look at now. Look at what they’ve done to —both of you. My husband betrayed with my own sister, and now I find out my parents betrayed from the very beginning. You’ve succeeded in ruining !"
The accusation hung in the air between us, harsh and unforgiving. My mother recoiled as if I’d slapped her.
"Diane," Joan said softly, "I know you’re hurting, but—"
"But nothing," I interrupted, suddenly bone-tired. The anger had drained as quickly as it had surged, leaving hollowness in its wake.
"Please, just go. I can’t do this right now."
My mother stood there for a mont longer, her hand still reaching toward across an unbridgeable divide. Then, without another word, she turned and left the room. The sound of her muffled sobs echoed back through the hallway, each one a tiny dagger to my heart despite my anger.
When the echoes faded, I sank back into my chair, trembling from the confrontation.
"I hate this," I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself. "I hate feeling this way. I hate that part of still wants to comfort her, despite everything she’s done."
Joan nodded understanding. "That’s because you love her. Love doesn’t just disappear, even when soone hurts you deeply."
"But how do I reconcile that love with this betrayal?" I asked, voicing the question that tornted . "How do I ever trust her again? Or him? Or anyone?"
"You don’t have to figure it all out today. You don’t have to forgive today. You just have to breathe, keep going, and take care of yourself and those babies."
I nodded, placing both hands on my swollen abdon. The twins were moving less vigorously now, perhaps sensing the shift in my emotional state.
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