Page 84 of The Temporary Bride

The text blurs a little in my vision, and I can feel panic and anger rising in my chest. What the fuck?

I need to know more, to understand what happened. To understand why I was never told.

I shut down the computer and stand up from my desk, my movements automatic as I stride for the door of my office. My secretary calls out, telling me I have a meeting soon, but I barely register her words.

“Push it back,” I mutter over my shoulder. “This won’t take long.”

As I step out into the hallway, I feel as if the ground beneath me is shifting. Everything I thought I knew about my father, about our family—which, admittedly, was already not enough—is called into question by this information.

The drive to my mother’s house seems to take forever. I sit in the back of the car, my mind racing with questions, practicing for what I’ll say when I see her. As the driver pulls up to the familiar address, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what’s ahead.

I step up to the front door and knock. Within a few seconds, the door opens, and she stands there, staring at me.

“Tristan? It’s the middle of the day! Aren’t you⁠—”

“Dad had cancer.”

Her expression drops. Pain settles over her face.

I push past her and into the house, my heart pounding in my chest. Anger, agitation, and shock churn inside me, threatening to overwhelm me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, the words coming out as an accusation.

She hesitates, her gaze falling to the floor, unable to meet mine. “Your father… he didn’t want to worry his family. He thought it would be best to keep it between us.”

“But you knew. You knew, and you kept it from us.”

She swallows, nodding. “I did.”

“And did you know—” I break off for a moment, my throat tight. “Did you know that his cancer had come back?”

Tears well in her eyes as she meets my gaze, her admission hanging in the air. “Yes,” she whispers. “I did.”

My jaw clenches as I stand before my mother. The truth, ugly and painful, hangs between us.

“Was Dad’s death an accident?” My words cut through the silence.

Her tears flow freely now, running down her cheeks. She shakes her head, her voice choked. “I don’t know,” she admits.

I reel back a bit, even though part of me was expecting that. Gritting my teeth, I run a hand through my hair as agitation churns inside me. How could I not have known about any of this? My father, the man I idolized, had been hiding a painful truth from us all along, sacrificing his own well-being to protect those he loved.

“He changed after his first bout with cancer,” my mother explains, brushing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He became so determined to protect us, to make sure we were taken care of. That’s… that’s why he was so focused on the company. It was all about providing for the family.”

That truth sinks in hard. Parts of my father’s behavior that I could never wrap my head around—that I always chafed against—begin to make terrible sense.

“He never told you about the cancer because he didn’t want any of you to worry,” my mother continues, her words punctuated by sobs. “He thought he could handle it on his own, that he could shield you from it⁠—”

As everything starts to fit together, the realization hits me. My father’s battle with cancer lines up with so much of what I’ve always struggled to understand. His relentless focus on work, his absence from our lives, his failure to take care of his relationships with my mother and all of us.

He was so consumed by the need to provide for us, to secure our future, that he sacrificed what we needed most: his presence.

I can’t unwind the deep hurt and anger twisting inside me. Money and security were never what I wanted from him. I wanted a father who was actually fucking present, who took the time to see us, to know us, to be there for us when we needed him the most.

I never had that, the most basic thing a kid needs from his parents.

Leaving my mother’s house feels like tearing myself away from the eye of a storm. She stands in the doorway, tears on her cheeks, her gaze following me as I retreat back outside. I can’t bear to look back, to see the pain and guilt on her face, knowing that I’m leaving her behind to deal with all of this alone.

The car is still idling in my mother’s driveway, waiting for me. As I climb into the back seat, the driver glances back at me. I’m sure my fury and grief are written all over my face, but he doesn’t comment, professional as ever.