After my father passed, I rented a quiet beach house he had visited often—our promised trip that never happened. I needed peace, to grieve in the same place he once found comfort. The house was charming, and the new owner, Nikolas, greeted me warmly. At first, everything felt serene. But soon, strange things began to happen.

Nikolas knew things he shouldn’t—my favorite flowers, fruits, even my pillow allergy. He’d replaced items before I said anything. I brushed it off until I found an old photo of my dad with a woman I didn’t recognize. It hadn’t been there the night before. When I confronted Nikolas, he looked terrified. “He wouldn’t want me to tell you,” he said.

Eventually, Nikolas confessed—my father had a brief affair with his mother. They separated quickly, but she became pregnant. My father kept returning to help raise Nikolas in secret. “So, you’re my brother?” I asked, stunned. He nodded. “Half-brother, yeah.”

I was furious. How could my father lie to both of us? How could he hide such a big part of his life from me—and my mom? “You didn’t deserve to be a secret,” I told Nikolas. But deep down, I understood. Life isn’t always simple, and grief makes everything feel sharper.

I chose not to tell Mom. She deserved to hold onto the version of my father she loved. But I told Nikolas we should stay in touch. “You’re my younger brother,” I said. He smiled, and we sat in silence, letting the sea bury the rest of our father’s secrets.