Him: “Listen. I’ll GIVE YOU $100,000 for these children.”
Me: “EXCUSE ME??”
Him: ” know the truth! It sounds crazy, but… THESE AREN’T YOUR KIDS!”
Thought about secret past and identity for a few seconds
I froze. My pulse roared in my ears, and I found myself staring at this stranger in disbelief. The offer for my children had come out of nowhere—but the real shock was his claim they weren’t actually mine.
He breathed heavily, looking just as tense as I felt. “Your wife and I… we knew each other.”
I could only choke out, “How? From where?”
His gaze returned to me. “We went to college together. We dated for a short time, before she met you. But then I left for the military. We lost contact, and she moved on. Years later, we reconnected. She told me she wanted children—desperately—but had fertility issues. She was terrified you might feel disappointed if you found out the complications were on her side.”
He nodded solemnly. “She used my… let’s just say we did a procedure. In vitro. I helped her. We set up legal documents. I was supposed to stay out of your lives. That was the deal. She swore she’d tell you eventually, but then… she fell ill so quickly, there wasn’t time.”
One of my daughters, Lily, tugged on my sleeve, her small face creased with worry. “Daddy?” she whispered. I could see the fear swirling in her eyes. This man’s words were just as terrifying for her as they were for me.
The man shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t mean to destroy your life,” he said. “But… I realized I want them with me. And now that she’s gone… I feel like they’re all I have. If you’d let them be mine, I’m willing to pay you for your troubles. One hundred thousand dollars, no questions asked.”
My vision blurred with hot anger. He was talking about my children—how dare he assume they could be bought or sold like property? My mind flickered with images of the late-night diaper changes, the birthday parties I threw, the doctor’s visits, the lullabies. I raised them. Not him. Every scrape, every bruise, every meltdown, I was there. But… were they biologically mine?
“I understand,” he said, frowning. “I’ll respect your decision, but I want them to know their biological father. I have no one else. I want some kind of place in their lives, even if it’s just a visit.”
The offer both confused and incensed me. Who was he to barge into our lives, unearth devastating secrets, then ask to be ‘part of the family’? But then I looked at my children, standing at their mother’s grave. They were too young to comprehend this tidal wave of information. One day, though, they’d want answers—truths about who they are and where they come from.