My face went hot. “I don’t talk about him that much.”
“You absolutely do. Last week you spent twenty minutes telling me about how he organized his spice cabinet.” She grinned. “Which, by the way, is extremely hot. A man who alphabetizes his cumin? Husband material.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.” Her smile faded. “But you’re spiraling about something, and I’m guessing it’s not just the feelings. So what is it?”
The waitress brought Delia’s coffee. I waited until she left before speaking, and even then the words came out quiet and rushed like I could minimize the impact by saying them fast.
“My father killed his wife.”
Delia’s cup stopped halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“The accident that killed Joana. The drunk driver.” I was gripping my own cup so hard the cardboard was buckling. “It was my father. I found out a few days ago and I haven’t told Hector and I don’t know what to do.”
The coffee shop noise continued around us but our booth had gone completely silent. Delia set down her cup carefully, like she was afraid any sudden movement might shatter something.
“Sarah—”
“I didn’t know.” The words tumbled out faster now, like they’d been waiting for a crack to escape through. “I only found out because I was researching the accident to help Lily and I sawhis name and I realized—” My voice broke. “I realized my father destroyed their entire lives.”
Delia reached across the table and grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm and paint-stained and solid. “Okay. Okay, slow down. Tell me everything.”
So I did. All of it—finding the police report, seeing my father’s name, the week I’d spent hiding in my apartment trying to figure out what to do. How I’d come back to work and try to pretend everything was normal while the secret ate me alive from the inside.
“And now Hector knows something’s wrong,” I finished, my voice fraying at the edges. “He keeps asking what’s bothering me and I can’t tell him because the second I do, I lose everything. Lily, the job, him—” I stopped.
Delia squeezed my hand. “Sarah, you have to tell him.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. This isn’t something you can keep hiding. He’s going to find out eventually, and the longer you wait, the worse it’s going to be.”
“What if he hates me?” The question came out small, scared, like a version of me I thought I’d outgrown. “What if he looks at me and all he sees is the daughter of the man who killed his wife?”
“That’s a risk you have to take.” Delia’s voice was gentle but firm. “Because right now you’re lying to him by omission. And that’s not fair to him or to Lily or to you.”
“It wasn’t my fault. Right?”
“No, it wasn’t. Your father’s choices aren’t yours to carry.” She paused. “But keeping this secret? That’s your choice. And that will be on you if it blows up in your face.”
I knew she was right. Had known it from the moment I’d found out. But knowing and doing were completely different things.
I practiced telling him every day for a week.
In the shower, I rehearsed the words: Hector, I need to talk to you about something important.
On the subway, I imagined his face when I told him: My father was the drunk driver who hit Joana’s car.
In bed at night, I played out his reaction—anger, disgust, betrayal—all of it warranted, none of it something I was ready to face.
But the chance to tell him never came.
Or maybe I never let it come.
Because Hector and Lily were thriving in ways I’d never seen before. Lily was speaking in full sentences now, laughing at jokes, dancing around the living room while Hector cooked dinner. Hector was different too. He smiled more, cooked elaborate meals just because he felt like it, played music in the kitchen while he worked.
They were healing—finally, visibly, beautifully.
