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Of Truth and Secrets

I NEEDED A SHOT OF vodka, straight, not shaken. If I didn’t get it in the next three minutes, I’d be teetotal for the rest of my life.

Talk of family secrets, and truths, crawling out of the woodwork at the worst of times: my mother had just told me the truth, and the most guarded secret, about my father.

What kind of a parent does that to their children? I was not only on overdrive but was also going bonkers. 

I had always berated God for plonking me in the middle of humanity as the only child, no brother or sister to boss around.

The truth—and the secret—was that I was a staid erratum and a product of paedophilia extended beyond consanguinity bounds over a protracted period. No wonder Mom hated me so much—I was her childhood’s living nightmare.

Grandpa’s Dad and Mom’s my sister.

Secret’s out—Mom gave birth to her brother.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay