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Dad always told people he was just a security contractor. But I noticed how he'd get calls at weird hours, and sometimes he'd disappear for days. When my friends asked, I'd just shrug and say he worked nights. We all understood the unspoken rules.

The old photograph I found in Dad's study showed three scientists in white coats, but their faces were carefully scratched out. On the back, written in faded ink, was a date and a single word: "Containment." Some family secrets are better left buried.

Dad always told people he was just a maintenance worker. But the hours were weird, and sometimes he'd come home looking tired in ways regular maintenance guys don't. The security badges changed colors every month, and we learned not to ask why.

Dad always told us not to mention mom's work at school. When friends asked why she worked nights, I'd just shrug and say "government stuff." It became normal, like the black cars that sometimes followed us or the strange calls at midnight.

Dad always told visitors we had a normal suburban life. But normal families don't have weekly security sweeps or get calls at midnight about "special patients." Mom would just smile and say some medical emergencies can't wait for daylight.

The old photograph fell from between the pages of my father's journal. It showed three men in white lab coats standing before a steel door marked "Section 7." Dad never mentioned working there, but then again, there were many things he never discussed.

I found an old photograph in my father's study yesterday. The edges were worn, showing a group of scientists in white coats, but their faces were deliberately blurred. On the back, written in faded ink: "Project Echo, 1982. Remember to forget."

Dad always told visitors he worked in "data management." It became our inside joke at dinner. We knew the massive satellite dishes behind his office weren't for managing spreadsheets. But that's how it was growing up - everyone had their cover stories.