When my five-year-old talked about going to see “Daddy’s other kids” at the “secret house,” I was shocked. I believed I knew everything about my husband, but what I found out left me speechless. I never imagined he could do something like that.
It was a Tuesday. Just a regular Tuesday that started like every other day in our quiet suburban life.
I picked up my son Tim from kindergarten, and he was his usual bubbly self.
His cheeks had glitter glue on them, and he was proudly showing me a wobbly paper plate turtle with googly eyes.
“Look, Mommy!” he said happily, holding it up like it was a treasure.
I smiled and bent down to see it better. “Wow, buddy. That’s awesome. Is it a ninja turtle?”
He laughed. “No, it’s just Turtle. He doesn’t fight anyone. He’s really slow, but he’s nice.”
I buckled him into his car seat and handed him his afternoon juice pouch. He stabbed the straw in with the dramatic flair of a tiny samurai, took a long sip, and then casually said the sentence that completely upended my world.
“Mommy, can we go to the playground near Daddy’s other house again? I miss his other kids.”
Daddy’s other house? Other kids?
For a second, I thought I must have heard him wrong.
I made myself laugh, because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Whose kids, honey?” I asked.
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Daddy’s other kids! The ones who call him ‘Dad’ too! They had juice boxes and a bouncy couch.”
“When did you see them?”
“When you were on the airplane for your work trip. Daddy said it was a secret house.”
The airplane.
My last work trip.
I’d been gone for three days at a tech conference in Austin, presenting our new software to potential clients. Jake had volunteered to handle everything at home, insisting he had it covered.
“What do you mean by a secret house?” I asked, my heart beating so fast I thought Tim might hear it.
He leaned forward in his car seat and spoke quietly, like he was sharing a big secret.
“Daddy said not to tell you because it’s just for fun times. The kids there have balloons all over, and the TV is so big it covers the whole wall.”
I didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive home. I couldn’t. My throat had completely locked itself shut, and my mind was racing through every horrible possibility I could imagine.
Other kids calling Jake “Dad.” A secret house. Telling Tim not to tell me.
When we got home, our house looked the same as always. But it didn’t feel the same anymore—like I was looking at everything through broken glass.
That night, after bath time and our usual bedtime routine, Tim fell asleep surrounded by his army of stuffed animals. I sat on the edge of our bed, staring at his little blue tablet that we’d given him for educational games.
The GPS app glowed in my trembling hands. We’d installed it just in case he ever lost the tablet at school or the park.
My finger hovered over the location history, and then I scrolled back to the weekend I was away.
There it was.
A small dot, sitting on an address I didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t near any playground or place we usually go.
Just a regular street, about 20 minutes from our house.
The dot had stayed there for three hours that Saturday. Long enough to get comfortable. Long enough for balloons, juice boxes, and for other kids to call my husband “Dad.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night. My mind kept going over every awful possibility, each one worse than the last.
Who was she? How long had this been happening? Why would he involve our son? Was Jake so sure of himself that he didn’t even bother to hide it anymore?
Even though I felt more and more uneasy, I didn’t say anything to Jake. Not yet.
I had to see it for myself first.
The next morning, I dropped Tim off at kindergarten like everything was normal.
I kissed his forehead, told him to be nice to his friends, and begged him not to eat glue again.
Then, I drove straight to that address.
I parked a little way down the street and turned off the car. The house I was looking for was pale yellow, with a big front porch and wind chimes gently ringing in the morning breeze.
A hand-painted sign in the front yard said, “Be Kind—Everyone’s Fighting a Battle You Can’t See.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or shout.
I sat there for about 20 minutes, just watching and waiting. My heart was racing so hard I thought I might faint right there in the car.
And then I saw Jake.
He walked out of the yellow house holding the hand of a little girl, maybe two years old. She had curly brown hair tied up in bright pink bows. She was talking to him in that excited toddler way, and he was listening closely, nodding like whatever she was saying really mattered.
More kids came out of the house behind them.
One boy had a Superman cape that was too long and dragged on the ground. A little girl carried a box of crayons almost as big as she was. They were all talking over each other, laughing, and tugging on Jake’s shirt to get his attention.
Then, a woman stepped into the doorway.
She had gentle eyes and gray-streaked curls tied back in a messy bun. She walked onto the porch and waved at me like she already knew me—like she’d been waiting for me to show up.
She said something to Jake. He turned, saw my car, and then did something I never expected.
He smiled.
It wasn’t a guilty smile. He didn’t look like someone who’d been caught doing something wrong.
He walked toward my car, still holding the little girl’s hand, like it was completely normal to see me there.
And just like that, my panic started to fade. I wasn’t scared anymore—just really confused.
A few minutes later, the woman with the gentle eyes introduced herself as Carol. She was a retired social worker, and the house we were at was called Sunshine House.
It wasn’t anyone’s secret home—it was a foster care center. A nonprofit daycare and support center where volunteers helped take care of kids going through really tough times.
Some of the children were waiting to be adopted. Others were stuck between court hearings or legal issues. And some just needed a safe place to stay while their parents were trying to get back on track.
“Your husband has been helping us for about two months now,” Carol said with a warm smile. “He comes every Saturday morning to help with the kids and play with them. They love him.”
Two months. Jake had been doing this for two months, and I had no idea.
He used to talk about how lucky he was to grow up with both his parents—and how he wished he could be there for kids who didn’t have that. I thought it was just something he felt. I didn’t know he’d actually gone out and done something about it.
Carol told me that at Sunshine House, kids were allowed to call the adult volunteers “Mom” or “Dad” if they wanted. It was meant to give them comfort, a sense of safety, and the feeling of being part of a family, even if only for a little while.
Tim hadn’t lied to me—he just didn’t know the full story.
He thought it was a secret because Jake had simply said not to make a big deal about it. He believed the other kids were his siblings because they also called Jake “Dad.”
But the truth was, the only real secret was that I had married someone even more caring than I realized.
I felt guilty for doubting him—for letting my mind go straight to the worst instead of trusting the man I’ve built a life with.
I thought he was hiding another family. But really, he was trying to be family to kids who didn’t have one.
I’m truly lucky to have a husband like him.
