An hour later, Lily arrives. She’s thirteen, fierce and fragile all at once. She throws her arms around me like she’s been holding it in for too long, then whispers, “I thought you hated us.”
I pull back, shocked. “What? Never. Why would you think that?”
My chest tightens. “That’s not true. I never stopped loving either of you. She’s the one who pushed me away.”
Lily bites her lip. “I know. I didn’t believe her, but… it hurt anyway.”
We spend the morning together. I make pancakes—whipped cream and strawberries, just like the old days. I watch them devour the stack, laughing and arguing over who gets the last piece. It feels like a tiny piece of peace has returned.
But I know this can’t last in secret. I can’t keep two kids in my house without their mother knowing forever. And I won’t let her keep poisoning them with lies either.
So I do what I always told my son I’d never do—I call him.
When he picks up, he sounds tired. “Hey, Mom.”
“Where are you?”
“At work. Why?”
Silence.
Then, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, your wife is verbally abusive to them. Zach said she called Lily a leftover.”
Another silence. A longer one.
“Is this about the visit? You still upset about what she said last year?”
Continue reading…
