It started like any normal Tuesday. I picked up my five-year-old, Tim, from kindergarten, and on the drive home, he casually said, “Mommy, can we go back to the playground near Daddy’s other house? I miss his other kids.” I froze. “What other kids?” I asked, laughing nervously. He explained that during my recent work trip, Jake had taken him to a house full of balloons, juice boxes, and children who also called Jake “Dad.” He said it was a “secret house.”
My stomach dropped. That night, I checked the GPS history on Tim’s tablet. It led to a house I didn’t recognize, 20 minutes away. The next morning, I drove there. A warm yellow house with a porch and wind chimes. I waited, heart pounding. Then Jake walked out—with a toddler holding his hand, followed by several more kids. A woman stood at the door and waved at me like she knew me.
Confused, I got out of the car. The woman introduced herself as Carol, a retired social worker. The house, “Sunshine House,” was a nonprofit foster care center. Jake had been volunteering there every Saturday for two months. He hadn’t told me because he didn’t want to make it a big deal—he just wanted to help quietly.
