For seven years, every month my husband secretly transferred money to an unknown account. I accidentally found an old receipt and dialed the recipient’s number. When a photo appeared on the screen, my legs gave way…

I found the receipt by chance. I was sorting out old documents in the closet, preparing for a tax audit. Among the utility bills was a bank transfer — 500 euros to an unfamiliar phone number. The date — seven years ago.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. Maybe a transfer to relatives I don’t know? But something made me check further. I reviewed statements from the past few years — and discovered that the transfers were regular. Every month. Exactly 500 euros. For seven years straight.

My heart began to race. I dialed the recipient’s number. A male voice answered — elderly, tired. I introduced myself and asked who he was. He paused, then quietly said, “I am the boy’s guardian. I thought you knew.”

I knew nothing.

He explained. It turned out that my husband has a son from a relationship that happened a year before our wedding. That woman is no longer alive — she died during childbirth. The boy was taken in by her distant relatives because my husband was too young then and not ready to raise a child on his own.

But he knew. He always knew about the existence of this boy. And he was silent. Seventeen years of silence.

I hung up and just sat in silence. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. Questions spun in my head: how could he keep this a secret? Why didn’t he say anything when we got married? When our children were born? When we planned our future?

Every month he transferred money. That means he thought of him. Cared. And said not a word to me.

When my husband returned from work, I silently placed the receipt in front of him. He looked — and his face changed. He turned pale, lowered his eyes. He was silent for a long time.

Then he began to explain. He said it was before me, that he didn’t want to burden me with other people’s problems. That he was afraid of how I would react. That he had wanted to tell me a thousand times but couldn’t find the words. That he simply transferred money so that the boy wanted for nothing, thinking it was the right thing to do.

I listened and felt everything inside me churning. This is not just a lie. It’s seventeen years of secrecy. Seventeen years he woke up next to me, raised our children — and knew there was another child out there whom I knew nothing about.

I asked, “Do our children know?”

He shook his head.

“So I was the last to know?”

He didn’t answer.

A week later, the guardian called again. He said that the boy is now seventeen, finishing school, and wants to meet his father. He asked if that was possible.

I handed the phone to my husband. I listened as he spoke quietly, cautiously. Arranging a meeting. After the conversation, he looked at me with hope and fear: “Will you go with me?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

On one hand — he’s a child. He’s not to blame for anything. He just wants to know his father. On the other hand — our children. How do I tell them they have a half-brother their father kept secret all his life? How do I explain that the family we built turned out to be an incomplete picture?

My husband tried to justify himself. He said it’s the past, that he loves me and our children, that the boy was just a youthful mistake for which he paid in money but couldn’t let into our lives.

But I wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about the teenager who grew up for seventeen years without a father. Who knew there was a father, that he was somewhere nearby, sending money — but never visited, never called, never cared.

And about our children. Who now find out that their father is capable of hiding the truth for seventeen years.

I agreed to go to the meeting. Not for my husband. For that boy. He deserves at least to see his father.

We met at a café. The boy was tall, thin, with serious eyes. He resembled my husband — the same features, the same gaze. He was nervous but held himself with dignity. Spoke softly, politely. Asked about our children — his half-siblings, whom he also didn’t know about.

My husband cried. Begged for forgiveness. Promised to make up for lost time.

And I sat there, thinking: can you make up for seventeen years? Can you forgive a person who built life on lies, even if out of fear?

It’s been two months now. We’ve told our children. They are shocked, angry at their father, but want to meet their brother. That boy comes to visit us once a month — cautiously, without imposing.

And I still don’t know what I feel. Resentment? Pity? Disappointment?

If you were in my place — would you forgive your husband for a seventeen-year lie? Or are there things that can’t be forgiven, even if someone acted out of fear? What would you do?

*****

For 7 years straight, my husband transferred money every single month to an unknown account. I found out by accident — I came across an old receipt hidden among his papers. I stared at the numbers for a long time, then dialed the recipient’s number without even knowing why. When a photo appeared on the screen, my legs nearly gave out. I silently deleted the call and realized: from now on, I will act in a way he will never expect…
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