The morning started with a scream—Scooter was missing. Panic spread, but my real fear wasn’t where he was; it was who he had found.
By noon, chaos filled the house. While everyone searched inside, I stepped outside and spotted a small gap in the fence—the one I had left open. My suspicion was confirmed when I found Scooter on Harold’s porch, happily eating pancakes.
“Stranger? Oh, Vivi. Isn’t it time you told them the truth? They have a right to know,” Harold said, his eyes twinkling.
Dragging Scooter home, I fumed, “He had no right to bring up the past!” My friends urged me to confess, but I resisted. Then, at dinner, the unthinkable happened.
Scooter grinned. “I invited him!” Before I could react, Harold leaned back and calmly said, “I’m your father.”
Silence. Greg, my son, scoffed, “I’m sorry. What?”
I had always controlled our family’s secrets. But that night, I had no choice—I had to tell my story.
