"I don't know, Sarah."
"But you still love us, right?" The question was barely a whisper. "You still want to be our family?"
Family? I can’t...
"I think we should take a break," I heard myself say. "From all of this."
Sarah's face crumpled. The tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks. She looked at me like I'd physically struck her.
"Sarah, come on." Cole's hand settled on her shoulder, steady and protective. His eyes met mine over her head, and I saw it all, the hurt, the confusion, the dawning understanding.
He knew. He saw my retreat for exactly what it was: fear, dressed up in flimsy excuses.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. The most inadequate words in the English language.
I started to close the door.
"Emma." Cole's voice stopped me. Not demanding, but pleading. "Don't do this. Don't shut us out because you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified. I can see it." He put his hand on the door, not pushing, just holding. "Whatever happened, whatever triggered this, we can work through it. But not if you won't let me in."
"There's nothing to work through."
"That's not true and we both know it."
I pushed gently against the door. For a long moment, he resisted. Our eyes locked, a silent war of wills.
Then his hand dropped.
The door clicked shut. The softest sound. The loudest ending.
I pressed my forehead against the wood, squeezing my eyes closed, waiting for their footsteps to retreat.
Instead, I heard Sarah's voice, muffled but achingly clear.
"Uncle C, why doesn't Emma like us anymore?"
A pause. I imagined him kneeling, his face level with hers.
"She's going through something hard right now, sweetheart."
"We can help her. We're good at helping."
"Sometimes people need to figure things out on their own."
"That's not fair." Sarah's voice cracked. "Did I mess it up? Was it because I called her Mommy?"
"No, baby. You didn't mess anything up."
"Then why is she being mean?"
"She's not being mean. She's being... scared."
"Of what?"
Another pause. When Cole spoke again, his voice was heavy with something I recognized: the weight of explaining adult failures to a child who deserved better.
