Just before his death, my father-in-law looked at me with frightened eyes and whispered: “When I’m gone… open the safe, take the documents, and leave my son!!

“He is not who he pretends to be.”

Over the last few weeks, my father-in-law had been slipping away. The doctors were honest — there wasn’t much time left. Whenever I visited him, he asked me to lock the door. Only then would his shoulders loosen, as if he could finally breathe.

But that day was different.

 

He lay unnaturally still, both hands pressed tightly against his chest, as though he were holding his life in place by sheer will. I was reading aloud from his old notebooks — his favorites — but I could tell he wasn’t listening. His eyes never left my face.

“Are you feeling worse?” I asked softly. “Do you want some water?”

He shook his head.

“No… not water,” he whispered. “I need you to listen.”

His voice sounded wrong — thin, strained, almost borrowed from somewhere else. I leaned closer, a heavy unease settling in my stomach. He had never spoken to me like this before.

“I should have warned you long ago,” he said. “I kept telling myself there was still time. That it wouldn’t come to this.”

His eyes filled with fear.

“You have to leave him. As soon as you can.”

My breath caught.

“Why?” I whispered. “What did he do?”

He closed his eyes tightly, deep lines carving into his face.

“He isn’t who he says he is. And he didn’t become this way alone,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

My hands went numb.

“What are you talking about?”

With visible effort, he lifted his trembling hand and gripped mine. His skin was ice-cold.

“After I’m gone, open the safe,” he said. “The code is his mother’s birthday. Everything I hid is there. Your life would have been different if you had known earlier. But knowing now is enough.”

“What’s inside?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I need to know.”

He slowly turned his head toward the window, as if someone unseen stood there waiting.

“Promise me something,” he said faintly. “When you see it — leave. Don’t confront him. Don’t forgive him. Don’t ask for explanations. Just go.”

He swallowed hard.

“He’s dangerous. Even to the people he loves. And you…”
His eyes found mine one last time.
“You are the only one he has ever truly loved. That’s why you’re his weakness.”

His hand slipped from mine.

He died less than a minute later.

That evening, while my husband was still at work, I went into his study. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I knelt in front of the safe. With shaking fingers, I entered his mother’s birth date.

Click.

The door opened.

Inside were documents, photographs, and medical records — not just one, but many. Different names. Different cities. The same face. The same pattern. Each woman had loved him. Each had disappeared from his life the moment she began asking questions.

At the very bottom lay a sealed envelope.

It had my name on it.

Inside was a recent insurance policy. I was the beneficiary. And beside it, a handwritten note in my husband’s familiar handwriting:

“If you’re reading this, it means you stayed too long.”

I closed the safe quietly.

Then I packed one bag, took only my passport and phone, and left the apartment without turning back.

Some secrets are meant to be discovered.

Others are meant to be escaped.

And I was determined to survive mine.