Rachel laughed at first, thinking it was a bizarre joke. “Is this real? You want me to undercover-date your dad?” she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. I assured her it was very much a serious request born of desperation.
With a fair amount of hesitation and a promise of a very expensive dinner on me, she finally agreed. She promised to report back every detail, looking for whatever red flag might be scaring these women away.
The date took place on a Thursday. According to Rachel’s initial text that night, it went even better than I had hoped. She messaged me saying my father was “absolutely wonderful” and a “total catch,” expressing genuine surprise that no one had stayed.
But history, as it tends to do, repeated itself with chilling precision. The next morning, I tried to call Rachel to get the full debrief, but my call went straight to voicemail. I texted her, but the bubbles never appeared.
By evening, a single text message arrived from her that chilled me to the bone. “Don’t contact me. Please. I can’t talk to you right now,” she wrote. This was entirely out of character; Rachel was the sister I never had.
Driven by a mix of panic and protectiveness, I drove straight to her apartment. Her car was in the lot and the lights were visible through the curtains, but she refused to answer the door despite my persistent knocking.
It wasn’t until the following afternoon that she finally called me. Her voice was trembling, brittle like dry leaves, and she sounded like she hadn’t slept a wink. “I can’t say it over the phone,” she stuttered.
I pressed her, asking if my father had done something inappropriate or frightening. I needed to know if the man who raised me was a stranger I didn’t actually know. “When can we talk?” I demanded.
“Tomorrow morning,” she replied, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Meet me outside my office before I head in. I don’t want to be anywhere private when I tell you what I saw.”
Sleep was an elusive concept that night. I paced my living room, imagining every possible horror, from secret addictions to hidden rooms. I felt like I was mourning my father before I even knew what he had done.
When morning finally broke, I was waiting by the entrance of her office building. Rachel approached me, looking pale and exhausted. She didn’t say a word at first; she simply reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.
“I didn’t leave because of your father,” she said, her hands shaking as she unlocked the screen. “I left because of what happened after he went to bed. You need to see the messages I received from your mother’s old number.”