“Daddy is here,” I whisper, voice cracked. “I promise: no more lies.”
Amy steps beside me. She reaches for my hand. Her grip is tentative. I shift, cradle Libra in one arm, reach out to her with the other. Our fingers find each other. The secret, the betrayal, the lie—they all gather in the space between our hands.
Libra pulls back just enough to gaze at both of us. Her eyes flick between me and her mother. The world seems to spin in that little glance.
Amy says quietly: “She deserves someone she can trust.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I shift Libra into one arm more securely, then lower myself to one knee so I’m closer to her eye level. I brush a strand of hair out of her face. Her lips quiver.
“You are my world,” I say. “I will not fail you.”
She touches my cheek, lightly.
Time slows. The apartment walls breathe. The secret held back, the lie told—everything converges in that moment. Layers of fear, hope, shame, love—woven tight.
Amy kneels beside me. She folds her arms around us both. Her tears glint in the half-light. She murmurs, “I believe you.”
I press my forehead to hers. Her cheek is cold and real. Our bodies quiver at the fractures that just now begin to realign.
The room smells like home again. But we are changed. The lie is done. The truth beginning.
Tonight, I failed. But holding my daughter, hearing her breathe, seeing both of them, I sense—maybe I can begin making right what was broken. Maybe, for the first time since the lie, we can try to live in the light.
And I vow again, under the muffled hum of the city outside, that the words I will speak tomorrow will be nothing but truth.
CHAPTER 48
AMY
The kitchen light flickers softly, casting trembling halos over the table. The air is heavy with simmered garlic, roast vegetables now cold, and the ghost of wine long drained. I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, fighting the tremor in my chest. The tines of a fork clink against a plate: Libra’s slow, persistent chewing. She’s trying not to look at me.
Across from her, Darun sits ramrod straight despite his exhaustion. His eyes flick toward me, then quickly away, like he’s guarding himself. The shadow under his jaw is dark with stubble and unshed tears. I see the way his lips press together after each smile he forces for Libra. I smell the faint salt of tears on his cheek.
Libra chatters between bites. “Teacher gave me extra crayons today. She said I can draw planets! I’ll make a picture for Daddy.” She beams low, unaware of the tension draped over us. Darun reaches across, tucks a blond curl behind her ear. His paw is gentle. “That’s amazing, kiddo,” he murmurs. His voice is thick.
I step forward, plate in hand, but I don’t sit. I feel miles of distance beneath my skin.
Libra tilts her head at me. “Mommy?” Her voice small. She watches me with bright eyes. I force a smile—but it feels cracked.
Darun says softly, “Libra, you want to show Mommy your drawing after dinner?” He tries to lift her mood, lift mine. I nod, swallowing hard. She lights up.
Then I step toward the sink, setting down the empty plates. The sound—stone on wood—makes both of their heads snap toward me.
“I need space,” I say, voice tight. The words hang. The scent of the kitchen—salt, grease, sorrow—fills my lungs.
He looks at me, so vulnerable: “Amy—please.” His voice cracks. “I’ll give you whatever you need. Just... please don’t shut me out completely.”
I freeze. The plea—so human, so raw—throws me off guard. His claws dig faint furrows in the wood of the table. His fingers tremble.
Tears threaten. My lower lip trembles. The room narrows around me; the glow of the stove, the hum of fridge, the distant city lights—I lean on the counter.
He stands. Libra watches him. He reaches out, voice shaking: “Please.”
I struggle for a breath, for strength. I want to tell him everything now. To heal everything. But betrayal is a cavern I can’t cross tonight. I turn away. The heat from the stove warms my back.
“It’s... I need to go,” I say softly.
He nods, heartbroken. “Okay,” he whispers.
