The Shameful Secret
A young man was so embarrassed by his one-eyed mother that he locked her away, refusing to let her attend his graduation. He didn’t want his friends to see her.
But shame has a way of coming back when you least expect it.
Betrayal in My Father’s House
When Mrs. Yarrow, my late father’s neighbor, called me about “tenants” in Dad’s house, I was confused.
“What tenants?” I asked.
“The loud ones throwing parties!” she snapped. “Beer cans everywhere, music blasting at all hours—can’t you control them?”
My stomach dropped. There shouldn’t be anyone in that house.
I hadn’t rented it out. Since Dad’s death, I couldn’t even bring myself to go inside. That house was sacred—a place frozen in time, full of memories.
Now, someone had broken in.
I raced over, heart pounding.
When I turned onto Dad’s street, my blood ran cold.
The house was trashed.
The front door hung open. Loud music thumped from inside. Beer cans littered the lawn. The porch—where Dad used to sit in his rocking chair—was now covered in stains.
And then I saw it.
Parked in the garage was a familiar beat-up Honda.
Nate’s car.
My husband’s best friend.
Phil did this.
My own husband had rented out Dad’s house behind my back.
All those little things suddenly made sense—the extra cash Phil had lately, the new shoes, the talk of a vacation.
He was making money off my grief.
Rage burned through me. He’d turned my father’s home—the place where I learned to ride a bike, where Dad comforted me after breakups—into a dump for his friends.
I wanted to storm inside, scream, break something.
But revenge would be sweeter.
I called Nate.
“I know you’re living here,” I hissed. “I could have you kicked out tonight.”
Silence. Then—
“What do you want?”
“Help me teach Phil a lesson,” I said. “Do this, and I’ll let you stay another month… rent-free.”
A pause. Then, slowly—
“Alright. What’s the plan?”
“The House Is on Fire!”
The next morning, Phil was eating breakfast when his phone rang.
“Dude, the house is on fire!” Nate shouted.
Phil nearly choked. “What?!”
“I don’t know what happened—sparks, smoke, fire trucks everywhere! It’s bad!”
Phil jumped up, spilling coffee. “I’m on my way!”
He lied to me, muttering something about a work emergency before bolting out the door.
But as he sped toward the house, his phone rang again.
Me.
“Hey,” I said, voice calm. “Just wanted to let you know I’m showing Dad’s house to buyers today. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
Phil nearly swerved off the road. “You’re SELLING it?!”
“Why not?” I said lightly. “It’s just sitting there.”
He exploded. “It’s a family relic! You can’t just sell it!”
“Too late,” I said. “See you soon.”
I hung up.
By the time Phil screeched into the driveway, panting, expecting flames—
The house was fine.
No fire. No smoke.
Just Nate, sitting on the porch, looking guilty.
“What the hell?!” Phil roared.
“I had to,” Nate mumbled. “Carla knows everything.”
Phil’s face went pale.
I had set the trap… and he walked right into it.
The Final Blow
Instead of coming home to face me, Phil checked into a motel.
“She chose a ghost over me!” he probably told himself.
The next day?
He filed for divorce.
He even demanded our house in the settlement.
Fine. Let him have it.
Because I had something better.
Justice.
And Dad’s house—mine again—where his memory could rest in peace.
No more lies. No more betrayal.
Just the truth, sharp as a knife… and twice as satisfying.
