And I was about to rip open every wound they’d spent two years trying to close.
So I kept my mouth shut and told myself I was waiting for the right moment. That I’d tell him soon, just not today. Not when Lily was this happy. Not when Hector finally looked at peace.
The excuses tasted like ash, but I swallowed them anyway.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when everything finally fell apart.
I was in the middle of a session with Lily, working on emotional vocabulary. She’d been doing so well lately—identifying feelings, expressing needs, asking for help when she was frustrated. We were going through flashcards when I realized I needed to use the bathroom.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart. Keep practicing those words, okay?”
Lily nodded and went back to her flashcards while I headed down the hall. My laptop sat open on the kitchen counter whereI’d left it that morning, still open to the research I’d been doing. Articles about childhood trauma, treatment approaches for selective mutism, ways to help kids process grief.
And buried in my search history, if you scrolled far enough: drunk driver Joana Valdez accident and Thomas Tinsley police report.
I’d meant to close those tabs weeks ago. Had told myself I would. But some masochistic part of me kept returning to them, reading the same details over and over like I could find some way to make them less true.
I finished in the bathroom and was washing my hands when I heard footsteps in the kitchen. I dried my hands and headed back.
Hector stood in front of my laptop.
His back was to me but I could see how rigid his spine had gone, how his shoulders had pulled up tight. One hand gripped the counter edge and the other hovered over the trackpad.
My heart stopped—actually stopped—like my body understood the danger before my mind did.
“Hector?”
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. Just kept staring at the screen.
I moved closer and saw what he was seeing: the article I’d left open, the police report summary, my search history displayed along the sidebar. And there, highlighted in my recent searches: Thomas Tinsley drunk driving accident.
My father’s name. Right there in black and white. Impossible to miss.
Hector turned to look at me and his face had gone completely white. “Why do you have this?” His voice was thin, stretched too tight.
“I can explain?—”
“Why are you researching my wife’s death?” His voice was too calm—the kind of calm that meant he was barely holding himself together. The kind of control that came right before everything shattered. “Why is this man’s name in your search history?”
“Hector, please?—”
“Tinsley.” He said my last name like it was poison on his tongue. “That’s your last name. Is this—” He stopped. Started again. “Are you related to him?”
The question hung between us and I couldn’t make myself answer. Couldn’t force the words past my throat.
“Sarah.” His eyes were wild now, desperate. “Are you related to the man who killed Joana?”
“Yes.” Barely a whisper. “He was my father.”
The silence that followed felt like the world ending.
“You are his daughter?” It wasn’t a question—it was a verdict. “You knew this whole time—” He couldn’t finish. Just stood there staring at me like I was a stranger.
“No. I mean yes, but not the whole time. I only found out a few weeks ago?—”
“A few weeks?” He laughed but it sounded broken. “You’ve known for weeks and didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know how?—”
