The door he kept slamming in my face while our children set the table and Grace washed dishes like she’d lived with us her whole life.
Then came the day I found her crying in the laundry room.
“Later” became his shield.
She had her forehead pressed against David’s pajamas.
“Grace, honey. What is it?”
She jumped like I’d caught her stealing.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Nobody in this house is fine. Please. Just tell me what’s happening between you two.”
She jumped like I’d caught her stealing.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist and shook her head.
“I can’t. I promised him.”
“Promised him what?”
She looked at me for a long time, eyes filled with tears.
Then she shook her head.
“Please don’t ask me.”
“I can’t. I promised him.”
She pushed past me and disappeared up the stairs.
I stood there, biting back a scream.
I wanted to march upstairs and demand every answer he owed me.
But I didn’t.
Because I loved him.
Because he was dying.
Because a part of me was terrified of what the truth would cost.
I stood there, biting back a scream.
Three days later, David went into the hospital and didn’t come home.
The funeral was a blur of black coats and casseroles.
Grace stood beside our children the whole time.
People asked me who she was.
I told them she was family.
