I’m months from retirement, two step-teens half here, half gone. Told my wife a part-time job might steady my nerves. Next day, she showed up glowing—new blouse, café nametag. I was proud, until the secrets began: missing paystubs, odd bank slips, Tuesdays at an unknown apartment. When I asked, she said quietly, “It’s not what you think. I had a son—Rafe. I’ve been visiting him.”
Rafe was wary but kind. Tuesday dinners became laughter, then family. He and his girlfriend moved north, had a baby, Milo.
Later, a letter revealed Rafe’s old caseworker left him a lakeside cottage. Holding Milo, I realized: she hadn’t lied for herself, but to heal. Retirement isn’t rest—it’s roots, and who you choose to love anyway.
