After my father’s death, I rented the beach house he used to visit, hoping to find peace. The owner, Nikolas, greeted me warmly, but soon, unsettling coincidences began piling up. He knew my favorite flowers, the fruits I liked, even that I was allergic to pollen — things I’d never told him. At first, I thought Dad had mentioned them, but it didn’t add up.

Then one morning, I found a photo of Dad with a woman I didn’t know, placed on my table overnight. My heart pounded as I realized Nikolas must have entered while I slept. When I confronted him, he admitted he’d left it — and finally confessed the truth. My father had once had a relationship with his mother.

Nikolas revealed that their brief affair ended when Dad chose to stay faithful to my mother, but soon after, his mom discovered she was pregnant — with Nikolas. My father kept visiting the beach house not just to escape life’s noise, but to quietly help raise him. “So you’re my brother?” I whispered, stunned. “Half-brother,” he said, “but yes.”

I was shaken, torn between betrayal and the strange comfort of finding family I never knew I had. “Dad loved you very much,” Nikolas said softly. And though I wasn’t ready to tell Mom, I promised Nikolas we’d stay in touch. As we sat by the sea, I realized the waves had carried not just grief, but secrets waiting to be uncovered.