I found a crumpled note in my husband’s jeans while doing laundry—just a phone number and the name “Tasha.” My chest tightened. I called it, expecting the worst. A child’s voice answered, cheerful and unbothered. When I asked for Tasha, she yelled, “Mom! That lady from Daddy’s phone is asking for you!” Then the line went silent.
My heart pounded as I stared at the phone. I almost dropped it. “Daddy’s phone”? My husband, Mark, didn’t have a daughter. At least, not that I knew of. I’d never heard the name Tasha before. I stood there in the laundry room, frozen, waiting for someone—anyone—to come back on the line.
After a few seconds, a woman picked up. “Hello?” Her voice was calm but uncertain. “Who’s this?”
I took a deep breath. “Hi… my name is Jessica. I found your number in my husband’s jeans pocket. It just said ‘Tasha’ and this number. I… I didn’t know what to think.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Oh… I see.”
It was such an odd response. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… tired.
I waited. She finally added, “Look, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just gave Mark my number in case he ever wanted to visit.”
“Visit?” I asked, my stomach twisting tighter.
There was another pause, then she said, “It’s not what you think. But maybe… maybe it’s time you knew.”
The next morning, after a long sleepless night, I confronted Mark over breakfast. He looked at me, startled but not guilty, when I said her name.
“Tasha,” I said, watching his reaction. “You’ve been keeping something from me.”
His shoulders dropped, and he put his coffee cup down slowly. “I was going to tell you. I just… didn’t know how.”
Those words never meant anything good.
“She’s my sister,” he finally said.