by Growing up, I always saw my parents living in separate homes. I lived with my mom, and my dad lived just two floors above us — with another woman, who was also my godmother. It never made sense to me until I discovered the truth years later.
I don’t remember ever seeing my mom and dad together as a couple. They were always kind to each other, like old friends. Their conversations were usually about me — my health, school, or financial matters.
At first, this didn’t seem unusual to me. Many families are different these days. But things started to feel strange when I realized, even as a young child, that my dad had always lived with my godmother, Rachel.
I think I was about four years old when I asked my mom, “Why does dad live with Aunt Rachel and not with us?” My mom didn’t give a clear answer, just said, “You’ll understand one day.”
To me, this arrangement seemed normal at first. I would spend weekends and holidays with my dad and Rachel — they lived just two floors above. I loved playing with Rachel; she was always warm and kind. My dad would bring me toys and treats, and I enjoyed being around them.
But one day, a friend at school asked why my dad lived with another woman. I didn’t know what to say. It made me start asking questions again. “Mom, why don’t you live with dad like other parents?”
Her answer was always vague: “Sweetie, some families are just different.”
That answer never satisfied me. One time, a close friend of mine, Helen, told me her parents had separated. She was devastated. Her father had moved out and started a new family. I felt sorry for her, but it also made me question my own family even more.
I came home thinking about it and decided to ask again. “Mom, I’m old enough now. Please, just tell me the truth. Why don’t you and dad live together?”
I could tell she was caught off guard. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we expect,” she said softly. “Some families are different, and that’s okay.”
“But I don’t want dad to live with another woman!” I cried.
“Rachel isn’t just another woman — she’s your godmother, and she cares about you deeply.”
Still, I couldn’t accept it. I started avoiding Rachel and felt distant from her. She noticed and asked if she had done something wrong, but I just stayed quiet. My behavior confused everyone, and eventually, they chalked it up to me going through a difficult phase.
Over time, I got used to the way things were again and started visiting my dad and Rachel like I used to.
A few years passed. One day, Rachel wasn’t feeling well, so I offered to help clean their apartment. While tidying up their bedroom, I noticed my dad’s chest of drawers and felt curious. I opened it and found several documents — among them were my birth certificate and a marriage certificate.
What I saw left me speechless: my dad and Rachel had been married since 1988. I was born in 1995.
That explained everything. My parents were never together. Rachel had always been my dad’s wife. But then, who was I in this story?
Later that day, when my dad came home, I confronted him. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth? That mom wasn’t your wife, and Rachel didn’t break up your family — she was your family.”
He looked stunned and realized it was time to tell me everything.
Years ago, while Rachel was away on a business trip, my dad made a serious mistake. He became close with their neighbor — my mom, Tiffany — and that’s how I came to be. Before this, my mom and Rachel had been good friends.
When Rachel found out, she was heartbroken. She distanced herself from my dad and ended her friendship with my mom. But when I was born, something changed in her heart. She decided to meet me, and over time, she accepted me and cared for me as if I were her own child.
“Rachel loves you like a daughter, Vicky,” my dad said. “She forgave us because of you.”
Just then, Rachel walked in, and I ran straight into her arms. When she asked what happened, my dad gently told her, “She knows, Rach.”
That moment was filled with love, forgiveness, and healing. I finally understood how deeply Rachel cared for me — not because she had to, but because she chose to.
Since then, our family has found peace. I now know I have two mothers — and one very human, very loving father. I may not have grown up in a traditional home, but I was surrounded by people who chose to love me despite the past.
