I cover my mouth with my hand, a choked sound escaping.
“Is he dying?” I whisper.
“He seems to be stable. That’s all I know.”
“Do you know which hospital he’s in? I need to go.”
Mark stands too and pulls me into a tight hug. “I’ll take you. I’m not letting you go alone.”
I press my forehead to his shoulder, my breath shaking. For a moment, just one, I let myself lean into him. Let myself be held.
Then I pull back, wiping at my face. “Okay,” I murmur.
And even though my legs feel numb, I follow him.
My mother straightens her posture.
“I don’t know what you were told,” she begins, her voice far too level. “You probably went looking for us and some gossiping neighbor started spreading misinformation.”
I study her face. She’s thinner, drained. Deep shadows under her eyes. And yet it feels like we’re back in the living room of my old house, having the exact same conversation. The same performance, on repeat.
“And what’s your version of the story?” I ask, curiosity winning out over my exhaustion. “Why was he naked in bed with your married neighbor?”
Her mouth opens and closes, as if the words refuse to come out.
“You know, Mom,” I continue, keeping my eyes on hers, “in the first months after I found out everything, I kept trying to understand. Replaying it all in my head.”
My tone flattens, fatigue evident in every word that leaves my mouth. “It’s something I talk about in therapy to this day, every time I think of you two... or whenever I feel the urge to call.”
I sigh.
“I’m never going to understand.” My throat tightens, but I push through it. “And the worst part is that, in the beginning, I saw you as a victim. I felt sorry for you. For thinking you were in the dark, blindly trusting him.”
“But the truth, Mom... is that this is the life you chose.”
I don’t soften it for her.
“You know what happened in the past, and in the present, but you keep choosing to believe your fairy-tale version of things.”
She recoils, flinching, like the truth stinging skin she’s spent years trying to numb.
Neither of us says anything. For a beat, Mom seems lost, like she has no script left to hide behind. She shifts her gaze to the side, then looks back at me with stubborn resolve.
“You don’t even know that tramp. You didn’t see the way she strutted down the street in those tiny clothes! The other day she was wearing a skirt so short it was like she wasn’t wearing anything at all!”
“Mom, stop. Please,pleasestop,” I plead. “They are not the villains in your story. Not one of those women were. And yes—women, plural. I know there were others. I know Grace wasn’t the last one.”
At the mention of Grace’s name, her face hardens, defensive, wounded pride masquerading as outrage.
“Dad is the villain,” I say, my voice more in control than I feel. “Those women were nothing more than accomplices.” I inhale shakily. “And you, by consequence, became one too... by staying married to him, and worse, by covering for him. By defending him.”
My voice drops to a whisper. “For choosing him above anyone else, including yourself. And me. Your daughter.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “It’s not a matter of choices. I made vows when I married your father. And even when he makes mistakes, I know I’m the one he loves, and I love him too.”
A small sound of disbelief escapes me.
“What abouthisvows?” I ask, staring at her. “Didn’t he make the same ones?”
