While I packed applesauce pouches into lunchboxes, Mara tightened Sophie’s backpack straps and said, “Dad, can we talk tonight?”
I looked up. “Of course, honey. Is everything okay?”
She held my gaze just a second too long. “Tonight,” she repeated.
Then she set the water bottle beside Sophie’s bag and walked away.
And that unease stayed with me all day.
That night, after homework, baths, and the usual bedtime negotiations, the house finally quieted.
Mara stood at the living room doorway. “Can I borrow Dad for a minute?”
I sent Evan to bed, carried Jason upstairs, kissed Katie goodnight, and promised Sophie I’d come back to tuck her in again. Then I found Mara sitting on the dryer in the laundry room, like she’d been gathering courage just to stay there.
“Dad,” she said.
I leaned against the doorframe. “Alright, honey. What’s going on?”
She looked at me with that steady expression she used whenever she was trying to be strong.
“This is about Mom.”
My chest tightened. “What about her, baby?”
She took a slow breath—so slow it almost hurt to hear. “Not everything I said back then was true.”
She twisted her sleeve once around her finger. “I didn’t forget, Dad.”
“What?”
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice stayed calm. That made it worse.
