And then he left.
I think for a moment before answering… because even I don’t really know how I am. As if there’s a single word big enough to hold what these last few days have felt like.
“I’m…” I start, then stop. “Honestly? I don’t even know.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just waits. That’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about Mark. He never tries to fill the silence with empty words.
“The past few days have been awful,” I admit. “Every morning feels like waking up in the middle of something I can’t quite escape. I’m trying to find some kind of balance, between what I’ve lost, what I still have to process, and what I refuse to carry anymore.”
Mark’s gaze softens. “You’ve been through hell, Cecily.”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath that sounds more like a tremor.
He leans back, eyes searching mine. “Have you spoken to your parents again since that day?” he asks softly.
I hesitate, my throat tightening before the words even come. “They’ve called a few times,” I whisper.
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“And yesterday, while I was out getting groceries, my dad texted me. I hadn’t even noticed the two missed calls until I pulled my phone out of my purse. He said he was standing in front of my house.”
Mark straightens a little, his jaw tightening. “What did you do?”
“I told him I wasn’t home. He said he’d wait for me.”
“And?”
“I told him he could wait all he wanted, but only if he was ready to tell me the truth. The whole truth.”
I stop for a second, steadying my voice.
“When I got home with the groceries, he was already gone. No reply. Nothing.”
My mom’s been calling too, but only to ask me to talk to him, as if I’m the one who needs to fix what he broke.
Mark sets his mug down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you think he will?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I just know I’m not willing to accept lies or half-truths anymore.”
For a while, neither of us speaks.
I draw in a slow breath and force a small smile. “But tell me more about New Orleans,” I say, needing the shift.
He returns a small, tentative smile of his own and starts sharing little pieces he hadn’t mentioned in our texts or late-night calls. Stories about his grandmother, the neighbors who insisted on sending him home with food.
I let his trip to New Orleans become the distraction I need right now, allowing myself—if only for a few minutes—to forget everything that has come undone in my life.
I look at the phone screen.
In less than five minutes, my mother will be here.
She called yesterday, asking if we could talk this morning while the kids were at school. When I asked if my father would be coming too, she told me he’d gone with an old coworker to a conference in Chicago and wouldn’t be back for two days.
I’d be lying if I said hearing that didn’t feel like déjà vu… all those “work trips” Colin used to take. Trips I once never questioned.
It’s unsettling how quickly your perception of someone can shift, how everything you trusted can suddenly feel painfully naive
Weeks ago, I would have called my father or driven to his house the moment he returned from his trip, asked how the conference had gone, and we would have talked for an hour, maybe longer.
