He opens his mouth.
“Ro —”
“Don’t,” I say.
He closes it.
He nods.
We stand there.
All of it between us.
All thirteen years of it.
“I went to Georgetown,” he says.
“I know.”
“How —”
“Because I know you. And you told my dad who told me. But I’ve always known you. The silence after was the same as always. You saw me and you decided something and you went home.”
Something moves across his face.
“You saw me laughing,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“And you thought I was okay without you.”
“You were,” he says. “Ro, you were so —”
“I wasn’t okay.” My voice is steady. I’ve had three weeks and a very good therapist for this. “I know what you thought. That you were protecting me. That you were the problem and removing yourself was the solution.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You have spent thirteen years pushing me away because you love me,” I say. “Because you grew up watching love destroy things and you decided you would destroy me. That loving me meant ruining me.”
The crack in his expression is immediate.
“You’re not him,” I say. “You are not your father. You have never been your father. The fact that you’ve spent your entire life terrified of becoming him is the proof.”
“Ro —”
“Every time you left — I thought it was about me. I thought it meant I wasn’t enough. That I was asking for too much.” I stop. Breathe. “I put myself in a hospital. Again. I need you to hear that. Not to hurt you with it. Just because it needs to be said out loud by me. I put myself in a hospital and I still thought somehow it was my fault.”
He makes a sound.
Low.
Like something tearing open.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I say quietly. “And it wasn’t yours. Not the way you think. But the silence —” My voice goes soft. “The silence almost killed me. Not you. Not loving you. The absence of you. I need you just as much as you need me.”
He’s crying.
Silently.
