Three Tales of Uncovering Astonishing Secrets about Family Members Posthumously

We often believe that we are fully aware of our loved ones. However, sometimes the untold stories of their lives are revealed only after they die. Finding long-kept secrets could lead to surprising discoveries and raise concerns about how relationships and opinions might have changed if the information had been known earlier. These are three amazing stories about relatives’ shocking secrets that were only discovered after their deaths. Did it have any effect on how they lived? Let’s explore it.

1. I discovered my father’s double life when I inherited his run-down house.

I listened to the lawyer read our parents’ will while I clenched my fists next to my sister Hazel and her smug fiance Mark.

Hazel fidgeted in her chair and interrupted. “Mr. Schneider, but why did I get the main house?”
“I met your parents. They knew about our plans to get married and start a family,” Mark said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Freddy likes to travel and has never brought a girl home, so a big house should be a natural fit for a potential family.”

“Really?” he replied sarcastically, but it was only because Mark’s constant attitude irritated me.
Mark laughed. “Of course, your parents agree. They did this. I didn’t.”
“Mark, that’s not fair,” Hazel added shakily.
“Honey, it’s more than fair,” her fiancé said.

I was locked in a stare with Mark. After a sharp silence, Mark hinted at the lifestyle my parents had chosen. Hazel tried to defend me but Mark cut her off and said they should have gotten a mansion instead of an abandoned house. I questioned my sister about our parents’ outdated beliefs, especially in relation to my own life choices, and my voice broke.

Hazel acknowledged that some aspects of my existence were difficult for our parents to accept, but she still shook her head. Their generation experienced things differently. She pursed her lips and remarked, “They never knew if you would or could have children.”

I laughed sarcastically. “Hazel, this is the 21st century. They can observe how technology works by watching TV and movies. He went on to say that after realizing my tendencies, our parents started treating me differently.

“Stop it!” Hazel frowned. “I won’t let you talk about them that way. Mark grinned even more when she finally instructed me to respect our parents’ choice. I hung my head, nodded to Mr. Schneider, accepted the will, and left the law office with a hunched shoulder.

As soon as I got the keys, I moved into the abandoned house. It exceeded my expectations. Although my father paid a respectable price for it, he moved into the large mansion that Hazel had acquired after marrying Doreen.

It still hurt that our parents didn’t think I was worthy. However, this was no longer relevant. My new home was here and I had to make the most of it. On the first day, I assessed what needed to be fixed and decided to redo the kitchen and bathrooms. But after looking up the renovation price online, I let out a big groan. It would cost thousands of dollars to restore the site to a viable state, and that amount only included labor costs.

I shrugged and grabbed my laptop again. “I could teach myself,” I said. “How hard can it be?”

Warning: There was some spoiler. As a former theater student who is now a world photographer, I took on this assignment as my most difficult undertaking. I was hoping to dispel misconceptions about my talent by posting renovation updates on social media. I finished the kitchen and two weeks later I moved on to the bathrooms. But I sighed as I looked at that primary for a very long time. Renovating the bathroom seemed more difficult than just replacing a few cabinets and tiling, and it was a lot of work.

As I walked through the home, I thought, “Hmm, maybe I could do something else.” “Obviously, the bedrooms need a fresh coat of paint.

as well as the country. Wait, what is that?”

Thad had just walked into a small space that looked like it should be a home office. However, this was the first time I saw a strange protrusion in the corner. “Don’t tell me this floor is rotten or something, please. What’s the estimated cost?” I regretted having to use the rest of my fortune for actual construction work.

To my surprise, my palm went through the floor as I bowed and felt the strange unevenness of the boards. “Ugh! That’s awful,” I mused as I wiped my hands. But as my attention returned, I noticed a strange emptiness that wasn’t there.

I immediately grabbed my phone and when I looked closer with my flashlight, I noticed stairs leading into the shadows.

I asked Mr. Schneider about the floor plans of the house a few days later.

“How do I find floor plans for this house?” he asked, cautious as he investigated the secret staircase.

Mr. Schneider recommended that you check with your local authority. We didn’t know about the bomb bunker located in my father’s former house until after his death.

Properly built during the First World War.”

Mr. Schneider promised to look into the matter further and get back to me.

When the floor plans arrived a few days later, I saw that the house actually had a basement hidden behind trapdoors.

Even though I knew I didn’t need to look down there, my curiosity got the better of me and I began to wonder if my parents had left the house for this hidden area.

I therefore used a sledgehammer to break up all the decaying material to match the dimensions of the trap door. The rest of the floor looked pretty typical. “Oh, man. As I started to descend, I remarked, ‘I bet it’s flooded down there.’

When I had a dead battery on my phone, I could smell a strong musty, and damp smell in the air. When I got to the bottom of the stairs I muttered, “Great, this will be more money.” As far as I could tell, it was an ordinary room.

However, in the middle stood an antique typewriter and a table strewn with papers. Did Father know about this place? My hands reached for the sheet on the table that contained a small poem and as I looked at it I noticed the name Milton at the bottom of the page. I thought.

Among the documents, I discovered poetry signed by my father. God, God! I found out that Dad was a writer and a poet.

Penetrating further, I saw that behind the sheets was an elaborate box.

I rushed upstairs and read the poetry with great anticipation, admiring their depth and elegance. I quickly realized that the other pages I found inside the elaborate box were from a novel that told the story of two men in love.

“Is that why they kept this place?” My father said these last words to me before he left the house, and I couldn’t help but wonder: “One day you will understand.”

My father hid much of who he was, perhaps because he was jealous of my freedom in the modern world and his own limitations. This realization hit me like a freight train.

Despite the late hour, I called Hazel, eager to tell her about this find.

I quickly said, “Hazel, I have to show you what I just discovered.” “Please visit my home tomorrow. Without his presence. It is important that we keep this between us for now.”

Mark interrupted us in our conversation, but I asked that we keep it between the siblings.

To my amazement, Hazel came alone the next day. I showed her the novel I found, the poetry, the elaborate box, and the hidden cellar. “It’s a love story of two men going to war,” I said.

Hazel was amazed and found it hard to square it with our father’s known prejudices. I explained my theory which suggested our father may have struggled with his identity. Our father gave me a house so that I could learn this story.

After learning the facts, Hazel paced the room in shock. It’s just absurd! What about mom? “

I insisted that she read the book.

“I believe Dad was going through a lot, and because of the times, he had to live in secret. I believe he put his whole being—his self-loathing—on me because I had complete freedom to do what I wanted. .”

Unexpectedly, the front door opened and Mark found himself in my living room and let out a loud roar.

“What are you trying to hide from me, my wife? Or are you trying to convince her to stop dating me?”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Hazie, tell me you won’t fall for that bull,” I said. “I wouldn’t invite him today even if you were seeing a really nice guy. It’s too valuable for anyone else to know this secret.”

He is trying to use us once again like he did with the house. Mark pointed his finger confidently and grinned, “You’re hiding something from me, so I won’t act in your best interest.”

Hazel said nothing.

Mark whispered to Hazel, “You know I’m right, baby,” his tone becoming alluring and kind. Because you love me more than he always hated me, they’re trying to separate us from each other.”

“Mark, stop it!” Hazel threw up her hands when she finally lost him. “If Freddy found anything here, it would be legally his.

Mark put his arms around her and tried to urge, but Hazel was done.

“ENOUGH!” Hazel pushed Mark away with a scream. “Oh my god, you’re so boring!

All you ever cared about was money! You didn’t really love me. We are finished.

“ENOUGH!” Hazel pushed Mark away with a scream. “Oh my god, you’re so boring!

All you ever cared about was money! You never really loved me. Mark, we’re done! I’m shocked that I ignored every warning sign!”

I sighed in relief.

“Is this why you’re breaking up with me?”

Mark spluttered, a shocked look on his face.

Indeed, Mark. It’s done. Hazel cried out with her arms crossed, “I want my life back.”

Mark turned and looked at me. “Freddy, tell her she’s making a mistake.

“Mark, Freddy won’t help you.

Hazel replied moving to the door, “He’s been trying to open my eyes to see your true colors for years now.” “Get out of here and out of my house!”

“It’s my house too!”

“We are not married!”

“I will fight you in this!”

“I’ll call Mr. Schneider right away,” I stated, picking up our lawyer’s phone without thinking.

Desperate, Mark shouted, “I want my ring back!”

“Mark, that ring belonged to my grandmother. I’m keeping it with me. In response, Hazel forcibly escorted Mark out of the house. When he was gone, she turned to me, relief and tears in her eyes.” I think I have to stay here for a while.”

I gave her a warm hug and said, “Stay here as long as you need.”

She pulled back after a while, a slight smile on her lips. “Can we order Chinese food? I can’t wait to read Dad’s book.”

I said, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. “Absolutely,”

Publishing my father’s work was not as difficult as we thought. My friends in the LGBTQ+ publishing community were happy to help. Touched by the story, Hazel asked that I keep all the royalties.

After speaking with Mark, Mr. Schneider promised not to disturb us again.

Apparently, Mark had left town, but that didn’t bother me. My priorities were my sister’s well-being and continuing our father’s legacy.

I finally got the urge to travel again. After renting my house, I set out on a new journey. I was thrilled to find that Hazel was happily dating a beautiful, perfect man who genuinely loved her when I returned.

Although it wasn’t a blockbuster, the book got great reviews. I therefore decided to publish our father’s poetry as well, along with a prologue that described his secretive life. It was an ode to acceptance, love, and the value of being true to yourself.

2. The things in my late husband’s secret trunk broke my heart when I found them

At the age of eighteen, I made a life-changing decision when I married the cute and funny Daniel, a man my wealthy father disapproved of.

My father shouted, “You’re going to take that lowly life and get nothing from me, Margaret!” “You’ll see what love really is when you have to live in a one-bedroom rat hole with cockroaches crawling up the walls!”

A bedroom with a rat hole and bugs crawling up the walls!”

But I ignored them. I knew I would never regret falling in love with Daniel. At all.

Returning to that tiny apartment seemed romantic at first (no insects or rats, just lack of space). Daniel started working at the post office and I managed to secure a position as a receptionist in a large hotel.

Daniel told me, “Job security, love,” when I pushed him to look for a better-paying job. “I need to know we’ll have a pension to keep us going when we’re old!”

I saw Daniel’s fixation on safety. Hadn’t he seen his father die in an accident on a construction site, leaving his mother to survive on the meager welfare she was given?

His widow and five children had no pension, no insurance, and he was illegal.

Daniel was determined that neither he nor I would experience the same thing.

not even our children will meet me. Daniel thought working at the post office would give us that guarantee.

But with two children to support, two meager wages didn’t go very far. Daniel and I were frugal, but we spent every penny we earned. There was rarely much left for savings.

After our two children grew up, moved out of the house, and started their own lives, Daniel and I found ourselves back where we started: Alaska for our son and Brazil for our daughter.

At this time my father departed this life. It would seem that neither time nor my good fortune had softened his heart, for he bequeathed all his considerable property to his youngest son, who was without any fault.

Daniel was inconsolable. He cried bitterly, “That’s what loving you has cost me, Margaret!”

“The life you deserve!”

“No!” I informed him strongly. “I wouldn’t trade what we have for all the money in the world!”

But Daniel fell silent and withdrew, and I began to wonder if, for the first time in thirty-eight years of marriage, he still loved me.

Daniel then started working a lot of overtime at his job. “It’s the new overnight mail, it has to be sorted 24/7,” he said. However, I noticed that Daniel smelled different when he came home at two or three in the morning. 

It seemed to carry an unfamiliar scent, something floral and expensive, not like the musty, paper-scented aura of the post office. But I trusted him implicitly, and my suspicions never turned into accusations. After all, Daniel was the love of my life and we’ve been through everything together.

When Daniel died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of sixty-five, my world came crashing down. In the midst of my grief, I was faced with the daunting task of sorting through his belongings. That’s when I found the suitcase. It was an old, weathered leather bag tucked away in the back of our closet, the likes of which I had never seen before.

My hands were shaking as I released the latches and opened them. Inside I found a collection of things that broke my heart and changed everything I thought I knew about my husband. There were dozens of letters, all addressed to a woman named Clarissa. They were love letters, tender and passionate, written over many years. There were also photos of Daniel with this woman, smiling and happy.

I felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal and devastation. How could he do this to me? The U.S? But when I read the letters, I discovered something even more shocking. Clarissa was terminally ill and Daniel supported her and her daughter financially for years. The “overtime” he was working was actually time spent with Clarissa, providing care and company in her final days.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but as I read more, I understood Daniel’s actions. He loved me deeply, but he could not ignore the plight of Clarissa and her daughter. His sense of duty and compassion led him to a double life of mystery and sacrifice.

I contacted Clarissa’s daughter who confirmed the story. She spoke of Daniel with such respect and gratitude, painting a picture of a man who did everything he could to help them, even at the cost of his own peace of mind. She knew about me and respected our marriage, she never tried to interfere or disrupt our lives.

In the end, my heart ached with a mixture of sadness, understanding, and a strange sense of pride. Daniel was a complicated man, full of love and contradictions. His actions, while hurtful, were also driven by a deep sense of morality and concern for others. I chose to forgive him and cherish the memory of the good man he was, knowing that love sometimes requires hard decisions and painful sacrifices.

My Aunt’s Secret Life as a Prolific Writer

Growing up, my Aunt Miriam was a quiet, unassuming woman who lived a simple life in a quaint cottage on the outskirts of town. She was a retired teacher and we often spent summers with her, enjoying her warm company and listening to her stories about history and literature. She never married or had children and seemed content with her single life.

When Aunt Miriam died at the age of seventy-eight, we were devastated. As her closest relatives, my sister and I dealt with her property. We expected to find little more than her meager possessions and a lifetime’s worth of mementos. What we discovered instead left us in awe.

In the attic of her cottage, we found dozens of neatly stacked boxes full of manuscripts. Each box contained a novel, carefully written and carefully bound. There were notes, character sketches, and even rejection letters from publishers. Turns out Aunt Miriam was a prolific writer, writing stories under a pen name we’d never heard of.

When we started reading her works, we were amazed by the depth and beauty of her writing. Her stories were rich in emotion, vivid descriptions, and complex characters. They ranged from historical fiction to romance to mystery. It was clear that she poured her heart and soul into these manuscripts, creating stories that were compelling and profound.

Among her things, we found a letter addressed to us. In it, Aunt Miriam explained why she kept her writing a secret. She had always loved storytelling, but her upbringing and the societal expectations of her time made her doubt her talent and fear judgment. Writing under a pseudonym allowed her to express herself freely, without the constraints of her identity or the fear of failure.

Aunt Miriam’s letter also expressed the hope that we would share her work with the world. She never had the courage to venture into publication, but she believed in the power of her stories and wanted others to experience them. We granted her wish and, with the help of a literary agent, began the process of publishing her novels.

The response was overwhelming. Readers and critics praised Aunt Miriam’s work and marveled at the talent of a writer who had been hidden for so long. Her books became bestsellers and her name – both real and pseudonymous – gained recognition and respect.

The revelation of Aunt Miriam’s secret life was a revelation. She taught us about the complexity of human nature, the fears and dreams that shape our lives, and the courage it takes to pursue your passion in the face of doubt and adversity. Her legacy lives on through her stories, a testament to the quiet strength and immense talent of the woman who was once known only as our gentle, book-loving aunt.

In all three stories, revelations about our loved ones left us struggling with a mixture of emotions – shock, sadness, understanding, and admiration. These discoveries reshaped our perception and deepened our appreciation for the complexity of the human experience. The secrets they carried, though hidden in life, eventually brought us closer to the truth of who they were and the lives they lived.

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