The lawyer’s voice cut in sharply. “Sir, please sit. These documents are verified.”
My father’s face twisted with rage, panic, and humiliation. Then the most chilling line appeared, and my chest tightened:
I swallowed hard and read on:
“In 1998, a child was born into this family. That child disappeared within weeks. Your father knows why—and so does your mother.”
The chapel went silent.
My mother, sitting a few rows back, made a small, broken sound.
Suddenly, I understood: this secret wasn’t just about money.
It was about a missing life.
My father whispered, barely audible, “Please…” Not out of love, but fear—fear that the truth would finally surface.
But my aunt had chosen the one moment he couldn’t intervene: a public funeral with witnesses.
I lowered the papers briefly, trying to breathe. My hands were numb. My ears rang. My family froze mid-reaction—mouths open, eyes wide, unsure whether to deny, scream, or flee.
Her face was pale, streaked with tears. She didn’t look at me at first—she looked at my father. In her gaze was something I’d never seen before: a lifetime of fear.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered.
My father snapped at her. “Don’t,” he hissed.
But everyone was watching now.
Trembling, she said, “Vivienne was right. I let it happen.”
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