My breath catches.
He swallows hard. “Many years ago. Someone I never should’ve loved, and yet… I did. And when your mother found out, things broke. Maybe permanently.”
“Are you staying together because of money?” I ask.
“No.”
“Because of me?”
The horror hits me in a wave.
“Dad, if that’s true—if you two are miserable because of me—I swear?—”
“That’s not it.” He lifts a hand. “She stayed because of image. Status. Her pride. And I stayed because… the woman I loved died. Two years ago. Cancer.”
My chest tightens.
He stares into the fire again.
“Your mother never asks,” he continues. “And I never tell. But she knows every Christmas morning, I leave early and place flowers on her grave.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Raw.
Human.
And suddenly—I get it.
I get him.
I get the self-protective quiet.
The avoidance.
The tolerance of my mother’s cruelty.
The reserved, distant way he exists in this house.
He lost someone he loved.
Someone who wasn’t his wife.
Someone he couldn’t grieve publicly.
And now he lives a ghost of a life.
I lean forward.
“So… you know what it’s like,” I whisper. “To have love. Real love. And lose it.”
He shuts his eyes. Once. Slow.
“Yes.”
“So you understand why I’m losing my damn mind right now.”
