Tommy grew to resent his stepdad when he learned the man wasn’t his real father.
For a moment, he even imagined he could remember living alone with his mum before this stranger appeared—someone he’d been forced to call *Dad*. But what kind of father was he? A fraud. A liar. And his mum was just as bad, keeping the truth from him. Not just any truth—the most important one.
“Tom, please understand… We wanted to tell you, but the right moment never came…”
His stepdad crouched in front of him. His mum perched on the edge of his bed, nodding silently.
“You lied to me,” Tommy muttered, staring at the floor.
“We didn’t lie… Well, I suppose we did… But you were barely two when your mum and I married. You started calling me *Dad* straight away. I adopted you—made it official. We planned to tell you when you were older, but… things just slipped by.”
“The *right moment* never came? But lying was fine? You always said honesty matters. Hypocrite.”
Tommy bit his lip, fighting back tears. Crying wasn’t an option.
“I get it. Everyone thought they were doing the right thing. Even Gran talked to the neighbours about me instead of me… And I overheard. Just leave. I want to sleep.”
“Tom, we love you. *I* love you. You know that, yeah?”
His stepdad reached out but didn’t dare touch him. His mum rubbed his shoulder rhythmically, trying to catch his eye.
“I know. I… love you too. Can I just sleep?”
They left, shutting the door softly. Tommy buried his face in the pillow and sobbed silently.
The next morning, he studied himself in the bathroom mirror.
“Huh… no resemblance at all.” He tilted his head, squinting. “Nose is different, too.”
Gran’s neighbour had been right—*doesn’t take after you, does he?*
“Who’s the lad take after, then? Not your lot, clearly,” she’d remarked over tea. And Gran had let it slip. Tommy had overheard by accident.
The revelation burned—like a bucket of invisible ice water dumped over his head, washing away every colour in his world.
He felt ashamed for eavesdropping. He couldn’t look Gran in the eye. (*Gran?* Was she even his gran anymore? Was anyone?)
He rang his mum, asking to go home early. One glance at him, and she knew.
Then came *that* awful, unnecessary conversation at home.
Tommy vowed never to bring it up again.
He couldn’t decide what to call his stepdad now, so he avoided calling him anything. Visits to Gran grew rare—just holidays with his parents.
Life became quieter.
He threw himself into football and friends. After school, he’d lock himself in his room, blasting music or gaming.
His stepdad stayed friendly, cracking jokes as usual—but kept his distance. Tommy was grateful.
One evening, with his stepdad out, Tommy carried his laptop to the kitchen.
“Mum, show me *him*. You can, right?”
“I can.”
She wiped her hands, pulled his laptop close, and pulled up a social media profile in seconds.
“Here. Look.”
“Wait… You found him that fast?”
“Of course. It’s social media.”
“So someone could find *you* just as easily? Or me?”
“I’ve never hidden. Neither have you, Tom.”
“Mum… If he called, would you have told me?”
“Yes. Honestly. I don’t lie.”
“I believe you. Thanks.”
Back in his room, Tommy stared at the screen.
A fair-haired man with glasses grinned from the profile picture.
*So that’s where I get the blond hair.* His mum and stepdad were both dark-haired.
Tommy checked his reflection in the window. He clicked through photos—the man grinning by a car, holding a fish on a boat, embracing a woman, then hoisting a grinning, gap-toothed blond boy on his shoulders.
*Wait… is that my brother?*
Tommy felt nothing.
More photos—always happy, always smiling.
*How is that fair?* He shut the laptop. His stomach twisted.
He sat on his bed, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, mind blank.
Then his stepdad returned.
The door cracked open, spilling light from the hall.
“Tom, got some proper steaks. Fancy dinner?”
“Not hungry… Thanks, D—”
The door opened wider. His stepdad peered in. “You alright, son? Not ill?”
“No, Dad… Just not hungry. Fancy cycling in the park tomorrow? Like we used to?”
“Absolutely, son!” His stepdad stepped in, grinning. “I’ll fetch the bikes from the garage tonight, check the tyres. We’ll go!”
“If you change your mind, come down. The steaks’ll be smashing—fried with onions. Follow your nose!”
“Alright, Dad… Thanks.”
His stepdad left, shutting the door softly. Tommy stayed put, eyes closed, listening.
From the kitchen, his stepdad’s deep laugh rumbled between his mum’s high giggles—probably another one of his “*mostly true*” stories.
Tommy missed those dinners. Missed *them*.
Soon, they were cycling again on weekends, visiting Gran for her legendary Sunday pies—always insisting Tommy try every filling.
“Growing lad needs his strength! Look at him, wasting away with all that football!”
Life settled, flowing like a steady brook—still bumping over stones now and then.
Days after his eighteenth birthday bash, his mum shut his bedroom door firmly behind her.
“Tom, I promised I’d tell you. He rang.”
“What’d he want?”
“Just asked how you were. And… things.”
“I’m fine.”
“I said as much. He asked if you knew… about him. I told him you did.”
“Alright. Don’t tell Dad, yeah? No need to upset him. It’s between us.”
“Haven’t told him. Thought the same.”
“You good, Mum?” Tommy hugged her shoulders.
Days later, a strange car idled outside—a man inside, the one from the photos.
But he wasn’t smiling. He scanned passersby like he was waiting.
Tommy walked past, then stopped.
“You lost?”
The man blinked. “Tom? You’re Tom, right?”
“Yeah. Who’re you?”
“Your dad.”
Tommy shook his head. “My dad’s at home.”
He walked away.
*P.S. Based on real events—real enough to hurt. All characters are fictional, but the hurt isn’t.*