I’m Edith, 35, and my world revolves around my 10-year-old son, Coby. His dad died in a crash when he was a baby, leaving me lost in grief. Six months later, Dave stepped in—kind, steady, treating Coby like his own.
We never told Coby Dave wasn’t his biological dad. I kept waiting for the perfect moment, but it never came. Then, at 10, Coby changed—quiet, distant, not my chatty boy anymore.
One night, I watched him poke at his spaghetti, barely eating. “School okay?” I asked, hopeful. He shrugged, “Fine,” and barely glanced up.
Dave shot me a worried look across the table. “Math test good?” he tried. “Yeah,” Coby mumbled, then bolted upstairs after a quick “Can I go?”
I slumped in my chair, staring at Dave. “He’s slipping away,” I said, voice tight. “He used to tell me everything.”
“It’s just his age,” Dave said, squeezing my hand. “He’ll open up.” But I wasn’t so sure—this felt deeper.
Weeks later, his report card arrived—Ds and a C minus. My honor-roll kid was tanking. I knocked on his messy room’s door, heart heavy.
“Coby, we need to talk,” I said, sitting on his bed. He scrolled his phone, muttering, “So?” I pressed, “Your grades—what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he snapped, pulling away when I reached for him. “Leave me alone!” His eyes flared with something raw, then shut me out.
I left, tears spilling in the hall. Dave found me, hugging me tight. “He’s hurting,” I whispered. “Give him time,” he said, but time wasn’t helping.
One night, I jolted awake at 2:17 a.m., throat dry. Dave’s side was empty—no note, no sound. I crept to Coby’s room—his bed was bare too.
Panic surged. Where were they? I called Dave—voicemail. My hands shook as I opened our tracking app.
They were at Willowbrook Cemetery—Mark’s grave, Coby’s real dad. Why there, now? I sped through dark streets, mind racing.
Had Coby learned the truth? We’d hidden Mark’s story, waiting for “later.” I parked near Dave’s car, spotting a lantern’s glow.
At the grave, Dave and Coby sat, talking softly. “Your dad’s laugh lit up rooms,” Dave said. Coby soaked it in, hungry for more.
I stepped closer, leaves crunching. “Mom?” Coby gasped. Dave stood, “Edie, I can explain—”
“How’d he find out?” I asked, staring at Coby’s teary eyes. “A kid at school overheard you,” he said. “Said Dave wasn’t my dad.”
My heart sank—I’d slipped at a conference. “I was mad,” Coby added. “Didn’t know how to ask.”
Dave rested a hand on his shoulder. “He came to me last week—I waited for him to tell you.” I hurt, but their bond softened it.
“I should’ve told you,” I said, sitting by them. “No more secrets.” Coby nodded, “Dave told me about my real dad—cancer, not just the crash.”
“He loved you,” I said, voice cracking. “I hid his pictures—my mistake.” Coby pointed to Dave’s phone. “He showed me.”
We sat quietly, the grave between us. “No more hiding,” Coby said, taking my hand. Dave squeezed the other, “Let’s go home.”
At the car, Coby paused, glancing back. “I love you, Mom,” he said, hugging me. Dave smiled—we’d be okay, together.
