My mum and I have always been close. We look very similar, sound alike and share the same name. So from a young age, I had asked her questions about her younger days. In particular, I knew about “the love of [her] life” — as she always called him — Henry.
While my dad has always been a decent man and a good husband, his love could never compare to the passionate and complete connection she had felt with Henry. In fact, the only reason my mum married my dad was because Henry had broken her heart and married another woman.
One evening, my parents had gone out for dinner and I was at home alone. When the phone rang and a man asked for “Jenny”, I said “this is Jenny”. The man then identified himself as Henry and immediately began speaking.
He begged me not to hang up because it was important. At this point, I knew I should have pointed out the mistaken identity but I just let him continue.
Henry explained that his son had recently been in hospital. They had found he had a rare blood type, which neither of his parents shared. This had led to DNA testing, which had revealed that Henry’s son was not biologically his. His wife confessed to him that their son was indeed another man’s child. She had tricked him to snare him, lying that he had slept with her when he was completely drunk.
Henry sobbed that he had always loved “me” but had just wanted to do what was honourable and right. He implored me to meet with him.
It was then that I revealed I was actually my mother’s daughter and not his love. However, before I could stop myself, I also said “mum’s no longer with us”. Although I felt bad about lying, I was desperate to prevent Henry from entering our lives. I knew that if my mum found out the truth, she would want to be with Henry. The truth would destroy my parents’ marriage and utterly devastate my dad.
I then extended the lie, claiming cancer had taken mum and she had been cremated; her ashes scattered into the ocean as she had wished. We ended the call; Henry clearly upset and filled with regret, but still polite and sympathetic about my “loss”.
A few months later, we received a thank you note from the Cancer Council for our donation. I knew Henry had done this and I couldn’t look mum in the eyes.
I don’t think I’m as close to my mum anymore. I always feel so guilty about how I’ve changed her life and I’m so afraid that one day I’ll blurt out what I’ve done.
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