The flight from Bangkok felt endless, but hugging Mom at Riverside Airport made it worth it. Her kitchen smelled faintly of rosemary oil, but the faucet wheezed out a stingy trickle. The counters were stacked with dishes, boxes, and plates—chaos. “How long has it been like this?” I asked. “A few weeks,” she mumbled.
I decided to fix it myself. Two weeks passed with us washing dishes in the tub while she panicked whenever I approached the kitchen. Then, under the sink, I felt something strange. Loosening the u-bend, my fingers touched a waterproof-wrapped bundle. Inside: a flip phone and thick rolls of cash—thirty thousand dollars. Mom froze when she saw it. “I’ve been lying to you your whole life,” she whispered. “You have a brother.”
I stared. “What?” “I had a baby at seventeen,” she said, tears slicking her cheeks. “His name is Gerard. I gave him up at five. Then he found me six months ago, needed me to hide money for him because of danger, and vanished.” I powered the flip phone and called the contact saved as G. “Is this Gerard?” “Jeremy…? You’re my little brother,” came the rough voice. We met at Murphy’s Diner. Gerard was my mirror image with harder angles.
He revealed he was an undercover cop, had been deep in a drug investigation, and hid his savings in Mom’s pipes for safety. The cash was evidence; Mom had unknowingly safeguarded it. That night, the three of us sat at the kitchen table. Gerard explained everything slowly, Mom cried with relief, and we repaired the sink. Water ran freely for the first time in weeks. Secrets, I realized, are like mushrooms: they thrive in darkness. But truth, no matter how deeply buried—even in plumbing—eventually surfaces. Now, Sundays are for coffee with Gerard. Mom cooks, the soup simmers with extra thyme, and somehow, the kitchen feels like home again. Some things—family, honesty, even old recipes—are worth coming back for.
