Confronting Reality
Getting ready to face my father felt like preparing for a battle I wasn’t sure I could win. My dad, Thomas, was the owner of the theater, and the one person who would be able to tell us about a former employee.
He was also a man who valued tradition and professionalism—traits he lived by and often criticized others for lacking.
Marcus waited patiently by the entrance, his hat in hand, looking both apprehensive and composed. “You sure about this?” he asked, his voice steady but his eyes betraying his nerves.
“Yes,” I replied, pulling on my coat. “We have to try.”
On the way to the theater office, I found myself opening up to Marcus, perhaps to calm my nerves.
“My mom had Alzheimer’s,” I explained, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “It started when I was in college. Her memory was… unpredictable. Some days, she’d know exactly who I was. Other days, she’d look at me like I was a stranger.”
Marcus nodded solemnly. “That must have been hard for you.”
“It was,” I admitted. “Especially because Dad decided to move her to a care facility. I understand why, but over time, he just stopped visiting her. And when my grandmother passed, all the responsibility fell on me. He helped financially, but he was… absent. That’s the best way to describe him. Distant. Always distant.”
Marcus didn’t say much, but his presence was comforting. We approached the theater office, and I hesitated before knocking on the door. It felt like stepping into the unknown.
“Hello?” I called out tentatively.
A moment later, Thomas appeared, papers meticulously arranged in front of him. His sharp, calculating eyes flicked to us, then to Marcus. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to ask about someone who worked here years ago. A woman named Clara.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, then leaned back in his chair. “I don’t discuss former employees.”
“Please,” I pressed, “it’s important. Marcus has been searching for Clara for years.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened. “Her name wasn’t Clara.”
“What?” I blinked.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She called herself Clara, but her real name was Margaret.”
Margaret? I felt a chill run down my spine.
“She was Margaret to me,” Thomas replied, his voice bitter. “But she wanted to be someone else with you.”
Marcus looked pale, his hands trembling. “She never told me. I… I had no idea.”
I stared at my father, my heart pounding. “You knew all this time?”
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “She was pregnant when I found out. With you, as it turned out.” His eyes met mine, filled with a mixture of regret and anger. “I thought cutting her off from him would make her rely on me. But it didn’t. And when you were born… I knew I wasn’t your father.”
I felt a surge of emotions—confusion, hurt, and a longing for the truth.
