Page 6 of Broken Secrets
I grab my laptop from my desk and settle back against my pillows. If she won’t give me answers, maybe I can find them myself.
The search bar stares at me, cursor blinking. What do I even search for? I don’t have much to go on, only “Jeremy” and “Michigan” and eighteen years of her refusing to talk about him.
I type out his name, location and job before I can second-guess myself.
The search results load, and my heart pounds as I scroll through them. LinkedIn profiles, business listings, contractor websites. Common enough name that there are dozens of Jeremys in Michigan who work in electrical.
Then I see it, halfway down the page: Kline Electric - Family Owned Since 2010 - Jeremy Kline, Owner/Operator.
Kline. My last name.
My hands shake as I click the link. The website loads slowly, revealing a professional-looking page with a photo of a man in a work shirt standing next to a utility truck. He looks older than I expected, maybe early forties, with lines around his eyes and graying hair at his temples.
However, something about his appearance takes my breath away.
I look like him. My jawline is his and we share a smile,
The About Us page describes his experience—over twenty years as an electrician and started his own company after working for larger firms. It mentions his commitment to serving the community and his expertise in residential and commercial work.
Standard business website stuff. Nothing personal.
But then I find the “Our Family” section, and the world tilts sideways.
A photo loads and it’s Jeremy with his arm around a blond woman with a bright smile. Between them stands a girl who looks about my age, maybe slightly younger, with Jeremy’s green eyes and the woman’s golden hair.
The caption reads: “Jeremy, Lilly, and Emma Kline - Committed to serving our community and each other.”
Emma.
My father has another daughter named Emma.
The laptop screen blurs as tears fill my eyes. All this time, I thought I was alone. That I was the only evidence my parents’ relationship ever existed.
But I’m not alone. Somewhere in Michigan, there’s a girl named Emma who has everything I’ve wondered about my entire life. She knows what our father’s laugh sounds like. She probably has family dinners and inside jokes and a thousand memories I’ll never have.
She has the life I was supposed to have.
I screenshot the family photo with shaking hands, needing proof this is real. Then I close the laptop and stare at the ceiling, my heart racing worse than it has all week.
My father isn’t just “dead to Mom.” He’s alive, and he has a family. A family that doesn’t include me.
The next morning, I brush my teeth and stare at my reflection. Same green eyes as my mom, same stubborn chin. Now I know I’m not the only one who has them.
I head downstairs following the scent of coffee and the sound of Robert’s morning news podcast. He’s at the kitchen island, iPad propped against his coffee mug, reading glasses perched on his nose. Mom’s at the stove making scrambled eggs, her hair in a messy bun that somehow looks effortlessly perfect.
“Morning, sunshine,” Robert says without glancing up from his screen. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine,” I lie, sliding onto one of the bar stools. I’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about Emma Kline and the family photo that proves my father moved on without me.
Mom glances over my shoulder at me. “You look tired. Are you feeling all right? Any chest pain?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
She sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of me along with a glass of orange juice. “Don’t forget you have the permission slip for the Catalina Island trip. It’s due today.”
Right. The senior class trip. I’d completely forgotten about it with everything else going on. “Where is it?”
“Kitchen counter, by the fruit bowl.” She points with her spatula. “Needs your signature and mine.”
