I listened to a confession once. I was on the island of Phuket off the coast of Thailand. I’d checked out of my hostel and was planning to walk to a nearby bus stop to catch a ride to the airport. The female manager of the hostel offered to make me breakfast at a nearby shack opposite the bus stop. The bus wasn’t due for a while so I readily accepted the offer.
I sensed that she wanted to get something off of her chest. She opened the shack, which featured a small kitchen and bar. I took a seat at the bar looking into the kitchen as she started to fix breakfast. She proceeded to tell me that she’s been working to send money back to her mother who is looking after her daughter. Not only that, but her mother is raising her as her own. The girl thinks that my friend is her sister.
I sat back to take this all in.
I learned that she was unmarried and had had the child when she was young so it was easy to convince both the child when she was old enough, and everyone else that they were sisters, albeit far apart in age.
I couldn’t begin to comprehend what this woman had gone through. Not to be able to hold her child as a parent and to take care of them. The child believing that they are sisters only.
I wanted to know if she planned to tell the girl the truth eventually, but she didn’t know. She wanted to tell someone and we had become friends during my brief stay, and now that I was leaving, probably never to return, I seemed a safe bet.
We hugged and said our goodbyes. She closed the shack and I walked over to the bus stop to await my bus. Did she ever tell the girl that she, her sister, is actually her mother? Maybe she figured it out when she got older. I will never know. All I know for certain is that in telling me she felt some form of relief in telling a complete stranger her confession.