But all I could see was Mara at eleven.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “You don’t get to come back now and pretend this was a misunderstanding. You left. That’s the truth. And if the kids hear anything, they hear all of it.”
She covered her mouth. “Can I at least explain to them?”
“Maybe one day,” I said. “If it helps them—not you. And tell me the truth… are you really sick?”
She broke down completely.
“No… I’m not. I just… I’ve been dreaming about them, and I wanted to—”
I turned, got into my truck, and drove away.
That night, Mara sat beside me at the kitchen table while the younger kids colored, as if children always needed something to do when adults were trying not to fall apart.
“What did she say?” Mara asked.
“That she thought you’d move on.”
Mara stared at her hands. “I never did, Dad.”
I covered them with mine. “You don’t have to carry her anymore.”
“But she said she was sick…”
“That was a lie,” I said gently. “She admitted it.”
Mara squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Dad.”
