That illusion shattered at midnight.
I fell asleep early that night, exhausted from work. I don’t remember dreaming. Just darkness.
Then shaking.
Hard.
I opened my eyes to Amelia standing over me. Her face was pale. Her breathing uneven. Sweat dampened her hairline.
She was holding something.
“Oliver,” she whispered, voice trembling, “you need to wake up. Right now.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What’s wrong?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking.
“I found something. Something Leo has been hiding from you. For years.”
I sat up.
“What are you talking about?”
Her voice broke. “We can’t keep him. We have to give him away.”
The words didn’t make sense.
Then she handed me what she was holding.
A small, worn notebook. A folded envelope tucked inside.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside were drawings. Pages and pages. A child’s handwriting, growing neater over the years.
Pictures of me and Leo holding hands. Me teaching him to ride a bike. Sitting together on the couch.
And then words.
I know Dad isn’t my real dad.
