“I didn’t know how to tell her.”
“You had eight years.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He was silent.
That hurt almost as much as everything else.
He’d watched me pack my bags hundreds of times.
He’d apologized occasionally.
But he’d never told me why.
Now he wanted me to support our mother’s explanation.
His marriage depended on it.
I told him he needed to tell Avery himself.
And that I wouldn’t lie for him.
I contacted Suzanne directly.
I didn’t want a public confrontation.
I simply wanted her to know the truth.
We spoke over a video call.
At first, she could barely speak.
Then she asked me to explain.
So I did.
I showed her my yellow notebook.
Two hundred and eleven dated departures.
I explained the bedroom.
The funeral.
The medication.
And the dogwood.
Suzanne began crying when she recognized the nursery tag.
