Sam.

~~~

I heard footsteps approaching from the hall. Dad entered the room, his presence commanding as always. He was dressed in one of his signature tailored suits, the kind that practically screamed authority. His expression was as serious as ever, his sharp gaze sweeping over me as he closed the door behind him.

"Samantha," he greeted, his deep voice steady and deliberate. He crossed the room in measured strides, placing a firm hand on Mom's shoulder, his usual gesture of silent solidarity.

"Dad," I replied, my throat tightening. The knot in my stomach coiled tighter as the weight of what I'd come here to say settled fully on me. This was it—the confrontation I'd been dreading. The air felt charged, like the heavy stillness before a thunderstorm.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, his movements deliberate, and then gestured toward the cream-colored sofa. "Let's sit," he said, his tone carrying more command than an invitation.

Reluctantly, I followed, perching on the edge of the sofa across from them. Mom sat gracefully beside him, her back straight, her hands folded neatly around her own coffee cup. They looked like they belonged in one of those framed portraits of high society—polished, unyielding, and utterly impenetrable.

Dad's sharp eyes locked onto mine. "I assume you came here for a reason," he said. "This doesn't strike me as a casual visit."

I took a deep breath, my hands clenching around the mug I still held, the warmth barely reaching my cold fingers. "No," I admitted, my voice steadier than I felt. "This isn't a social visit. I came because we need to talk. About everything. About what you expect from me, about Grandma, and about... other things."

Mom exchanged a quick glance with Dad, her expression unreadable but carefully composed. "We've been meaning to have this conversation," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "We know things have been difficult for you lately, but you must understand that we only want what's best for you."

That phrase. I hated that phrase. It was their shield, their excuse for every decision they'd ever made on my behalf. My jaw tightened. "Mom, Dad, I'm not a kid anymore," I said, my voice edged with frustration. "I'm an adult, and I need to make my own choices. Right now, that choice is to take care of Grandma. She needs me."

Dad's jaw clenched, the lines around his mouth deepening—a clear sign he wasn't happy. "Your grandmother needs professional care," he said, his voice firm. "The kind that can only be provided in a proper facility. You can't be expected to put your life on hold indefinitely."

The heat in my chest rose, spreading up to my face. "I'm not putting my life on hold," I shot back, my voice rising. "I'm stepping up for my family. For the woman who's always been there for me. Why can't you see that?"

Mom sighed, setting her coffee cup down with a soft clink that felt louder in the strained silence. "Samantha," she began, her tone laced with condescension, "we're not trying to undermine your intentions. But you have to be practical. What about your writing? Your career? You can't do everything."

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" I snapped. "My career. My future. You've never cared about what I actually want. All you care about is what you think I should want."

My words hit like stones, sharp and deliberate, and for a moment, they just stared at me. Dad's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back slightly, calculating his next move.

"Samantha," he said, his voice cold and measured, "we've invested a great deal in your future. We've given you every opportunity, every advantage. And yes, we expect you to make something of it. Taking care of your grandmother is not a career—it's not a path that leads to success."

His words sent a jolt through me, like a sudden electric shock. "And what if I don't want your definition of success?" I fired back, anger boiling over. "What if I want to live my life on my own terms? What if I want to be there for Grandma because she's the only person who's ever really understood me?"

For a moment, the mask on Mom's face cracked, her features softening. But then her voice came, gentle but edged. "Samantha, you're being emotional. We're just trying to help you see the bigger picture. You need to think about your future."

My throat tightened, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. "How can I think about my future," I said, my voice trembling, "when I don't even know who I am? You've kept so much from me, haven't you? You've always kept secrets. And I'm tired of it. I'm tired of living a life that was planned out for me without even knowing the truth."

Mom and Dad exchanged another glance, this one longer and weighted with something unspoken. Finally, Mom turned back to me, her voice softer now, but cautious. "What are you talking about, sweetheart?"

My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would break free from my chest. I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself. "I want to know the truth," I said, each word deliberate, each syllable trembling. "I want to know why you adopted me and why you never told me."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Mom's face paled, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Dad's expression turned to stone, his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with tension and the weight of the truth I'd just unleashed. There was no going back now.

I watched them, waiting for a response, but they were frozen in place. Their perfectly constructed world was starting to crack at the edges, and I could see it in their faces. The fear, the guilt, the dawning realization that their secret was finally out. It was written in Mom's trembling hands and Dad's intimidating silence.

"Why did you keep it from me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The vulnerability in my own words surprised me, but I couldn't hold it back any longer. "Why didn't you ever tell me the truth?"

Mom reached for her coffee cup, but her hands were shaking so badly she didn't lift it. Her eyes darted to Dad, seeking reassurance, but he didn't even glance her way. He just sat there, his jaw tight, his face a cold mask of unreadable wall.

Finally, Mom looked back at me, her voice breaking as she spoke. "We... we were afraid, Samantha," she stammered. "Afraid of what it would do to you. Of how it might change things. We wanted to protect you, to give you a stable, secure life. We didn't want you to be burdened by the past."

Her words hit me like a wave, but instead of knocking me down, they left me standing in the undertow, struggling to breathe. My chest ached with the weight of her admission, with the truth I'd always suspected but never dared to confront.

"But you can't protect me from who I am," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "You can't just hide the truth and hope it disappears. I deserved to know. I deserved to understand where I come from."

Dad finally spoke, his voice cold and distant, each word hitting like ice on bare skin. "And what good would that do?" he asked, his gaze locking onto mine, sharp and unyielding. "What would it change? You are our daughter, Samantha. No matter where you came from, we raised you, gave you everything, and we expect you to honor that."

I swallowed hard, anger and sadness twisting inside me. "I can't honor something that was built on lies," I said, my voice rising despite myself. "I need to know the truth. All of it."

For a moment, I thought Dad might lash out—his eyes darkened, his lips pressed into a thin line. But instead, he stood, his movements deliberate, final. He walked to the window, his back to me, staring out at the city below.

"Then you'll have your truth," he said, his voice low, hard as stone. "But don't expect it to change anything. You are who we made you, Samantha. Nothing will change that."

The weight of his words pressed down on me, suffocating and hollow. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought to hold myself together. Deep down, I knew he was wrong. The truth mattered. It always mattered.

Mom inhaled sharply, her manicured nails gripping the armrest of the sofa. Her usual icy composure wavered, but she kept it together, her lips trembling as if she wanted to speak but didn't know how.

Finally, she broke the silence. "Who told you?" she asked her voice a sharp whisper that cut through the tension.

"Nobody told me," I said, my voice quivering but growing steadier with each word. "I figured it out. You were always so protective, so quick to hush people when they mentioned Keith. And now, with all the articles... it only made sense." I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Uncle Keith isn't really my uncle, is he?"

Dad didn't move. He just stood there at the window, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he could hide from this moment.

Mom let out a shaky breath. "No," she said finally, her voice soft but cracking under the weight of the truth. "But we did it to protect you, Samantha. We didn't want you to feel different like you didn't belong. Back then... when Keith and Melissa died, the press was relentless. It tore our family apart. We wanted to shield you from that."

"You had years to tell me," I said, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Years! But you didn't. You kept the truth about my own life from me. How is that supposed to make me feel like I belong here?"

Mom glanced at Dad again, her eyes pleading. But he stayed silent, still looking out at the skyline as if he hadn't heard a word.

Her voice broke as she continued. "We were scared, Samantha. Scared of how you'd react, of how it might hurt you if you found out too early. We thought if we raised you as our own, without you knowing, you'd have a better chance at a normal life. We didn't want you to grow up carrying the weight of your birth parents' deaths."

"Normal?" I choked out a bitter laugh. "You think hiding the truth gave me a better chance at normal? You think lying to me made me feel like I belong? I had a right to know who I am. You took that from me."

Tears filled Mom's eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. "We did the best we could," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "We raised you with love and gave you all the opportunities. We supported your dreams..."

Her words trailed off, but they didn't soften the ache in my chest. The truth had finally come to light, but instead of clarity, it left me with more questions and more pain. The life I thought I knew had been built on a foundation of secrets, and I wasn't sure what would be left standing when it all came crumbling down.

"Opportunities?" I interrupted, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions. "Supporting my dreams? Is that what you call it? All I ever felt was pressure—pressure to be someone I'm not. You wanted me to be perfect, to follow your path, to be this flawless daughter who'd make you proud. And all this time..." My breath hitched, tears threatening to spill. "All this time, I was living a lie!"

Dad finally turned away from the window, his face set in a rigid, unyielding mask. His eyes were sharp and cold, cutting through me as he spoke. "You think this was easy for us, Samantha? Do you think we didn't struggle with this? We made a choice—a choice to raise you as our own. We didn't take that lightly."

I stared at him, my chest tightening like a vice. His words weren't what I wanted to hear; they weren't what I needed to hear. "And what about my choice?" I fired back, my voice trembling but louder now. "You never gave me one. You never trusted me enough to handle the truth. I had to piece it together from half-whispers and buried secrets. Do you know how that feels?"

Dad's jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His voice dropped, low and tense with frustration. "What would it have changed? You are our daughter. We raised you, provided for you, and loved you. Knowing the truth wouldn't change that."

I shook my head, tears spilling freely now, blurring the edges of the room. "It changes everything, Dad," I said, my voice trembling with pain. "I deserve to know who my real parents were. I deserve to know where I came from. I deserved to know the truth about my own life."

His frustration snapped into anger, his voice rising as he roared, "We are still your family! No matter what, it changes nothing!"

I staggered the force of his words like a physical blow. "If that's true, then why?" My voice cracked as I pressed him, desperate for answers. "Why take me in? You hated your brother, didn't you?"

His expression shifted, surprise softening the hard lines of his face. "Hated?" he repeated, his tone almost disbelieving. "Keith wasn't just my brother—he was my best friend. And I lost him. Your mother lost them, too."

Mom's quiet sobs broke the silence that followed. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her face crumpling under the weight of old grief. "Melissa was my best friend," she choked out, her voice breaking. "We were so excited for your birth, sweetheart. I could never have children. Your dad and I knew that. When the doctors told us Melissa was brain-dead..." Her voice faltered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "We were devastated. Not just for her, but for you."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Keith and Melissa. My uncle and his girlfriend. The reckless, free-spirited couple I'd only heard fleeting stories about, were my parents' best friends. The realization hit me like a truck, they didn't talk about them not out of spite but out of grief. I can't imagine losing Molly, and raising her child with such love and despite everything selflessness.

"What truly happened?" I asked, eager to know more answers.

"Keith died," my dad said, stepping back to the sofa. "Melissa was brain dead, but they could keep her alive to carry on with the pregnancy," He swallowed, sitting down and grabbing Mom's hand. He glanced at her, but she still couldn't control her sobs. "We meant to be your godparents, your grandparents wanted to adopt you as well, but we stepped in instead. Melissa had no family of her own, we acted as best as we could."

"That is why Michael left me everything and no one really opposed it," I said with conclusion in my trembling voice. The way my dad nodded confirmed my suspicions.

"Like your mom said," Dad replied, his thumb circling the top of my mom's hand in a soothing motion. "The press was all over this, with their status and we were your age, honey, we didn't know better, we just knew we needed a good home for you. Wanted to shield you from prying eyes, and as time went on you were more and more like Keith. Rebellious, reckless..." he trailed off to my surprise he smiled, as reminisced about his brother.

"So that's it?" I whispered, my voice trembling under the weight of the revelation. "You didn't tell me because you were scared I'd turn out like them? That I'd inherit their flaws?"

Mom's sobs turned to gasping breaths as she reached out toward me, her hands shaking. "We thought... we thought we were doing what was best for you," she said, her voice raw with regret. "We were wrong, Samantha. We were so wrong. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her apology hung in the air, fragile and desperate, but it couldn't bridge the chasm between us.

"I need time to process," I said, my voice hollow, the words barely audible over the roaring heartbeats in my ears. "I need to go."

Mom's face crumpled, her tears falling freely, but she didn't try to stop me. Dad sat silent, his dark eyes clouded with guilt, his lips pressed into a grim line.

I turned and walked toward the door, my legs shaky beneath me. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of their lies pressing down on me. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to think. As I closed the door behind me, I didn't look back.