When my father betrayed our family, my mother picked up the pieces, and I supported her. Years later, following her death, he begged me for something unfathomable. I tried to remain neutral, but what he said next broke me.
I used to believe we had the ideal family.
Dad would arrive home from work at precisely 6 p.m. We’d eat dinner together and discuss our days. Mom would laugh at his bad jokes, while I would roll my eyes and beg him to come up with something better.
That was my universe for 25 years. Then everything came crumbling down.
“Julie, honey, sit down,” Mom urged that terrible Tuesday morning. Her eyes were red and puffy. Dad was not at the breakfast table as usual.
“What’s wrong?” I inquired, already feeling my stomach twist.
“Your father has been seeing someone else,” she murmured. For eight years. And… she has a young girl. “His little girl.”
I could not believe what I had just heard.
Eight years? While I was visiting for Sunday dinner? While we were celebrating birthdays and holidays together.
“How did you find out?” I managed to inquire.
“He told me,” Mom replied, taking a long breath. “He stated he couldn’t live with the guilt any longer. The woman’s name is Sandra. Mya is seven years old, Julie. Seven.”
I finished the math quickly. Mya was born when I was eighteen.
So Dad’s business excursions and late evenings at the office were all falsehoods.
“What happens now?” I inquired.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Mom stated firmly. “Thank God for the prenup that his mother insisted on.” It safeguards what I gave to the marriage.”
The following few months were a whirl of attorneys and paperwork. Dad instantly moved out. He did not contest the divorce conditions. Perhaps his generosity was motivated by remorse, or perhaps he simply wanted it to end quickly.
Mom was amazing at that time. She never badmouthed Dad in front of me, despite the fact that I could see the pain in her eyes every day.
“You can choose your own relationship with your father,” I heard her say. “This is between him and me.” “You are an adult now.”
But how could I look at him in the same way?
Every time I saw Dad, I imagined Mom crying in her bedroom. I imagined Sandra and little Mya having a hidden life while our family fell apart.
I attempted to keep a relationship with him at first. We would occasionally meet for coffee. However, it felt forced and unpleasant.
“I know you’re angry,” he said during one of our meetings. “But I hope someday you’ll understand.”
“Understand what, Dad? That you lied to us for eight years?”
He had no decent response for that.
I eventually made peace with the situation for my own sake since carrying all that anger was draining.
I forgave him, but it did not imply forgetting. And it certainly did not imply accepting Sandra or Mya into my life.
Mom threw herself into work after her divorce.
She transformed her consultancy business into something spectacular. She was stronger than I ever anticipated.
Dad, meanwhile, appeared to be struggling financially. Supporting two households wasn’t easy on his income. But that was no longer my problem.
Everything was going well until last year, when Mom began moaning about being fatigued. At first, I assumed it was just work stress. I assumed she would take some multivitamins and be fine.
Then came the diagnosis. Can.cer.
The doctor informed us that Mom didn’t have much time left. Her cancer was aggressive, and they couldn’t do much to prevent it from spreading.
Three months later, she was gone. Mom lost her battle with can.cer.
She left me everything, including her home, business, and savings. Everything she had worked so hard to create after Dad ruined our family was now mine.
“You’re the only one who stood by me,” she whispered in her dying days. “Promise me you’ll use this wisely.”
I promised. And I intended it.
Running Mom’s consulting firm was both tough and enjoyable. I was finally financially secure for the first time in my life. I could pay off my education loans, fix up the house, and even take a proper vacation.
And then Dad called.
“Julie, I need to talk to you,” his voice was strained. “Can we meet for coffee?”
I haven’t heard from him in months. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about Mya. She’s… she’s very sick.”
Something in his tone convinced me to meet him. We sat in the same coffee shop where we’d have awkward post-divorce conversations.
Dad seemed older and tireder than I remembered. His hands shook as he mixed the coffee.
“Mya’s been in the hospital for three months,” he told me. “She has an uncommon blood disease. The doctors say she need specialized care, but our insurance won’t cover anything.”
I felt my chest tightening. “I am sad to hear that. That must be incredibly difficult.”
“The treatment costs $60,000,” he added. “We have maxed out our credit cards and even borrowed money from Sandra’s parents.” “We’re desperate, Julie.”
I could see where this was going. “Dad…”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he responded swiftly. “But she’s only a small girl. “She’s your half-sister, whether you know it or not.”
“I’ve never even met her,” I admitted gently.
“That was your choice,” he responded. “Look, I’m not proud of how things went. But Mya didn’t request any of this. She’s innocent in all of this.”
He was correct about that. But with Mom’s money? What happened to the money she made after he deceived her?
“I can’t, Dad,” I admitted finally. “It is not my responsibility.” She’s got two parents for that.”
“We’ve done all we could. I’m Julie’s father. And you are her sister. Family helps family.”
“Were you thinking about family when you were cheating on Mom for eight years?”
Silence. Dad looked at me with wide eyes before resuming the discourse.
“Please,” he begged. “Could you live with yourself if she passed away?” Because I’ll make sure you understand it was your decision.”
The last part felt like a threat. At that point, I got up.
“I need time to think,” I explained.
But deep down, I already knew the answer.
Dad did not wait for my decision. He called me the following morning.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” he replied. “I need an answer today.”
“Dad, this is a big decision. I couldn’t just—”
“Yes or No, Julie. Will you help your sister, or not?”
The way he said “sister” felt manipulative. We both realized Mya and I were strangers.
There was silence for a few seconds. Then Dad said, and everything changed.
“If you can’t help Mya, don’t call me again. “I will no longer consider you my daughter.”
What was I thinking? After everything he had put our family through, he was offering me ultimatums.
“Are you serious right now?” I inquired.
“Dead serious. Choose your side, Julie. “Your deceased mother or your living sister.”
That’s when something within me snapped.
How dare he set a mother against an innocent child? How can he threaten to disown me when he is the one who wrecked our family?
“Do you know what, Dad? You chose to cheat on Mom eight years ago. You prioritized Sandra and Mya over us. “Do not put this on me.”
“Is that it? “You’re going to let her pass away?”
“I’m not letting anyone die,” I said boldly. “You and Sandra are her parents.” “Figure it out.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Then we are done. Do not call me. Don’t attend my funeral. “You’re not my daughter.”
The call went de.ad.
Meanwhile, I sat down and stared at my phone.
My father had rejected me for refusing to pay his affair child’s medical fees from my mother’s inheritance. Why couldn’t he accept no as an answer? Why did he insist on making me pay for his daughter’s treatment?
An hour later, I began receiving calls from my family.
First it was Grandma.
“Julie, how could you be so heartless? That little girl is dying!”
Then, Uncle Mike. “Your father’s right. You’re just like your bitter mother.”
Aunt Sarah left a voicemail. “I never thought you could be so cruel. It’s just money, Julie. Mya is family.”
Each call made me upset. Everyone thought I was the evil daughter.
But then, something Mom always said echoed in my mind. “Never let anyone guilt you into betraying your own values.”
And that gave me the confidence to take the next steps.
First, I blocked Dad’s number. Then, I blocked Grandma’s, Uncle Mike’s, and Aunt Sarah’s.
One by one, I severed relationships with family members who believed I should revere my mother’s betrayer above her memory.
By the evening, my phone was finally quiet.
I sat in Mom’s recliner, holding her beloved coffee mug, and asked myself the most difficult question: Did I make the correct decision?
My hands were still shaking. My heartbeat was still racing. But, deep down, I knew the answer.
I had honoured Mom’s legacy. I had preserved what she had worked so hard to create. And I refused to let Dad manipulate me once more.
Do you believe I did the correct thing? What would you have done if you were in my position?
