The Stepmother Was Kicked Out of Her Home After My Father’s Death. I Was the Only One Who Took Her In While Everyone Mocked Her. Two Years Later, She Was Gone, and I Found a Box with My Name Under Her Bed…

When my father passed away, it turned out that he had left all his assets to us — his children from his first marriage. The house, savings, the car. The stepmother was left with nothing. Not even the right to stay in the house where she had lived with him for twenty years.

My brothers and sisters rejoiced. Finally, “this woman” got what she deserved. They always hated her, believing that she destroyed our family and took our mother’s place. They laughed in her face when she tried to understand what to do and where to go.

She was sixty-eight years old. No relatives, no savings. Father had supported her all her life, and she hadn’t worked for the past fifteen years.

I couldn’t stand by and watch this. I called her and said, “Move in with me. At least temporarily, until you figure things out.”

My brothers and sisters criticized me harshly.

— You’ll regret it. She’s using you just like she used Father.

I stayed silent. I just helped her pack up her things and brought her to my place.

We lived together for two years. She was quiet and unobtrusive. She helped around the house, cooked, and tried not to get in the way. Sometimes, I caught her looking thoughtful and sad. But when I asked if everything was okay, she would smile and nod.

Two years later, she passed away. Peacefully, in her sleep. The doctors said — it was her heart. It just stopped.

I was sorting through her belongings. A few clothes, some books, old photographs. And under the bed — a box. Cardboard, tied with twine. On the lid, my name written in her trembling handwriting.

I opened it. Inside — a stack of letters, photographs, documents. I began reading and couldn’t stop.

These were letters from my father to various women. Dozens of letters. Declarations of love, promises, meetings. Photographs of him with others. Bank statements — regular transfers to other accounts.

It turned out, Father had been cheating on my stepmother for years. Not with one, but with several women at the same time. He had children on the side — two, whom we didn’t know of. He secretly supported them, transferred money, met with them.

And the stepmother knew. She knew all this time and kept quiet.

In the box was her letter. Addressed to me.

“My dear. If you are reading this, it means I am gone. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this when I was alive. I wanted to but couldn’t. Your father was not the saint you all remember him as. He cheated on me our entire marriage. I knew from the first year of our marriage. But I kept quiet. For you, his children. For the family he claimed to value and yet so easily betrayed.”

Your brothers and sisters hated me, thinking I ruined your family. But it was your father who ruined your family when he left your mother for me. And then he betrayed me. And several other women after me.

I didn’t tell you the truth because I didn’t want to destroy your image of him. He was a bad husband, but he tried to be a good father. You loved him. Why take that love away from you?

When he left me with nothing, I wasn’t surprised. He always took more than he gave. Thank you for being the only one who didn’t turn away. You were kind to me when everyone else hated. Now you know the truth. Do with it what you think is right. I can no longer bear this burden.”

I sat with that letter and cried. The stepmother had been ridiculed for years. Accused of destroying the family. Hated for taking our mother’s place. And she just kept quiet, covering for Father, shielding our illusions of him.

I showed the letters to my brothers and sisters. Their reaction was predictable — shock, denial, anger. Some accused the stepmother of lying. Others said she collected it to take revenge posthumously.

But the evidence was indisputable. Bank statements, photos with dates, letters with postal stamps. Father indeed led a double life. And the stepmother covered for him.

I buried her next to Father. On her gravestone, I inscribed: “She kept others’ secrets and protected others’ memories. May she now be remembered with kindness.”

The brothers and sisters didn’t attend the funeral. They said they couldn’t forgive her silence. That she should have told the truth.

But I understand why she kept silent. Love for the father’s children proved stronger than the pain of betrayal. She sacrificed her reputation, her dignity, so that we could love our father.

We hated the wrong person.

Would you forgive the stepmother for keeping silent about the father’s betrayals? Or do you think she should have told the truth, no matter how painful?

******