Though I simply referred to it as family at the time, I grew up surrounded by what I now realize were deliberately crafted half-truths. My mother and I shared a third-floor apartment in a quiet building when I was a child. My dad and Rachel, who I had always been told was my godmother, lived on the fifth floor, just two levels up.
I knew even as a child that this layout was a little out of the ordinary. No one else I knew had a father who lived two floors up with a woman who wasn’t their mother, although I had friends whose parents lived together or apart following a divorce. I never gave it much thought, though. All my mother would say was, “You’ll understand.”
I had a great time upstairs, to be honest. My “godmother,” Rachel, was incredibly warm and caring, and my dad lavished me with stories and toys. She helped me with school projects, baked cookies with me, and always managed to make everything feel cozy, safe, and peaceful. I never felt uncomfortable around her.
However, everything changed the day a classmate questioned, “Wait… why does your dad live with another woman if your mom is still around?” with a dubious squint. The inquiry was more pointed than I had anticipated, despite its benign tone. I couldn’t get rid of the doubt it sowed. What had initially appeared to be a peculiar family arrangement started to feel odd after that.
I became aware of the differences in my family. What prevented us from living together like the families of my friends? Why did my mother’s voice become strained whenever Rachel was mentioned? Why did I feel bad about admiring Rachel so much all of a sudden?
I started posing more challenging queries. As usual, my mother avoided the situation by using sighs of exhaustion or gentle platitudes. She would say, “It’s complicated,” or “You shouldn’t worry about it.” However, I was concerned. I was upset. And I filled in the blanks with my own narrative: Rachel was the issue. My dad had been carried away by Rachel. Despite her seeming sweetness, Rachel was the reason my family wasn’t complete.
So I withdrew. Slowly at first—fewer trips upstairs, shorter embraces, less eye contact. Naturally, Rachel noticed. She would try to reestablish contact by asking polite inquiries. However, I didn’t give her anything back. I never explained to her why. I just constructed a wall without revealing the bricks.
In the end, I covered everything up with layers of maturing: school, friends, first loves, heartbreaks, and moving out. Whether intentionally or not, I made the decision to give up looking for the whole narrative after realizing that I would never find it.
Years went by. Then, when I was in my mid-twenties, I received a call informing me that Rachel was ill. She need assistance around the apartment while having therapy. I immediately volunteered to help.
I found an old envelope full of folded documents while organizing a drawer in my dad’s study. A marriage certificate was at the top of the pile. After scanning the names, I looked at the date: 1988.
My heart fell.
1995 was my birth year.
My entire being froze. It wasn’t only one date that made things “complicated.” The whole story I had lived by was turned upside down. The other woman was not Rachel. The wife was Rachel. My mommy. For years, I had harbored a secret grudge against this woman. It was she who had been deceived.
And the one who had ruined their marriage was my mother—my witty, fiery, and adored mother. She had formerly been close to Rachel. They met in this way. That was the start of my parents’ affair.
The floor seemed to have collapsed. That same day, I faced my father, my voice shaking with bewilderment and an unexpected type of anguish. And he didn’t refute it, to his credit. He filled me in on everything.
He acknowledged that Rachel had abandoned him when my mom became pregnant with me, feeling betrayed and heartbroken. However, after I was born, something changed in Rachel, and she returned—not to him, but to me—choosing to forgive them and to remain in my life. She had every reason to leave, but she chose to stay, and she chose to love a child who was living evidence of her husband’s adultery. As we were still speaking, Rachel entered the room, weak but smiling, and I saw her in a new light—not as the person who had stolen from me, but rather as the one who had given so much, silently, selflessly, without acknowledgment or obligation.
I lost it. She opened her arms without hesitation. I sobbed like a kid once again into her shoulder. No speeches were given. Not a drama. Just love that I hadn’t completely comprehended until that moment, and calm forgiveness.
My perspective on my family has drastically changed in the present. It’s not straightforward, traditional, or even simple to describe. However, it is real. It has layers of betrayal and forgiveness, suffering and recovery. I have more than just my parents. One of the ladies in my life chose to raise me through birth, and the other through unending grace.
I used to feel envious of children from “normal” homes. Now, I consider myself really fortunate to have a complex story.