The Lie

Deathbed confession.

"I'm not your father," he said.

I could do nothing more than blink at him. “Of course you are my father.”

He coughed raggedly. “No, Bonnie, your mother and I agreed not to tell you the truth. She’s gone now and I can’t pass without you knowing the truth. Nine months before your birth, your mother was sexually assaulted. A dna test confirmed you aren’t my daughter. He is. He’s serving a life sentence under the three strikes law.”

How could I not be my father’s daughter? He raised me. He bandaged my cuts. He taught me to drive. “I don’t care who donated the sperm. YOU are my father.”

“I’ve lied to you for your whole life.” The strain of taking each breath lined his face.

“To protect me. I can’t imagine how hard it was for you and mom to withhold the truth. Daddy, I love you.” The lines of distress and pain smoothed and his eyes closed. His hand went limp in my hands. My words had brought him peace after a lifetime of lies.


178 words


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"I'm not your father," he said.