Everything changed when my dad’s son showed up last week, bag in hand, asking to see his father. My mother studied his complexion–darker than ours, but he bore those trademark eyes.
They argued. The name, March Chambers, danced off of her tongue. He admitted to the affair and knowing about the child–his child, even though he never used those words.
I thought they moved past it, but I knew I was wrong when I walked into the kitchen. My mother stood over his body, laughing. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Don’t be sad. He wasn’t your real father.”
Skeletons © 2024 Rena Aliston. All rights reserved.