I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. I just started the engine and drove us home in the dark.

My father passed away two days later. I didn’t go to the hospital. I didn’t go to the funeral. I stayed in the house and cleaned everything, scrubbing the floors until my knuckles were raw and red. I wanted to scrub away the memory of that room, but I couldn’t.

Wallace and I are still together. We talk about the weather, and we talk about the bills, and we talk about the neighbors. But there is a distance between us now, a wide, silent river that neither of us knows how to cross. I look at him and I see a man who saw through me, who saw the rot in my heart and chose to love me anyway.

That is the hardest part. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for being better than I am. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for letting him carry that burden alone. I have my life back, but it feels like a stolen thing. I keep looking at the door, expecting to see my father’s face, but all I see is the reflection of a woman who waited too long to be human.

It is a strange, bitter peace. I have the truth now, and it is heavier than any lie I ever told myself.