The route.
An address that wasn’t his grandparents’ house.
Jenna’s name.
I flipped through the pages, my mind struggling to keep up.
There were messages between him and Jenna from that day.
“Can’t stay long,” he had written. “Got to get back before she suspects.”
“Drive safe,” she replied. “Love you.”
My stomach lurched.
“No,” I whispered.
My mother’s voice cut in, sharp and precise.
“He wasn’t driving to his grandparents that night,” she said. “He was driving home from his mistress.”
I looked at my husband.
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.
He didn’t.
He just started to cry.
“Before the accident,” he said, voice breaking, “it was… it was stupid. I was stupid. Jenna and I—it was a few months. That’s all.”
“A few months,” I repeated.
“I thought I loved you both,” he said miserably. “I know how that sounds. I was young and selfish.”
“So the night of the accident,” I said, “you were driving home from her.”
He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.
“I was leaving her place when I hit the ice. I spun out. Woke up in the hospital.”
“And the grandparents’ story?” I asked.
“I panicked,” he said. “I knew you. I knew if you believed I’d done nothing wrong, you’d stay. You’d fight for me. And if you knew the truth—”
“I might have left,” I finished.
He nodded.
“So you lied,” I said. “You let me believe you were an innocent victim. You let me burn my life down for you based on a lie.”
“I was scared. Then time passed, and it felt too late. Every year it got harder to tell you. I hated myself—but I couldn’t risk losing you.”
I turned to my mother.
“How do you know all this?”
She exhaled slowly.
“I ran into Jenna at the grocery store,” she said. “She looked terrible. She told me she’s been trying to have children. Miscarriage after miscarriage. She kept saying God was punishing her. So I asked, ‘For what?’ And she told me.”
Of course Jenna thought it was punishment.
Of course my mother tracked down proof.
It felt like the floor tilted beneath me.
“You let me choose you over my parents,” I said to my husband, “without giving me the full truth.”
He flinched. “I didn’t let you—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “You did. You took my choice away.”
My mother’s voice softened. “We were wrong, too. For cutting you off. For staying silent. We thought we were protecting you—but we were really protecting our image. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t make room for her apology yet.
I placed the papers on the table. My hands were steady.
“I need you to leave,” I said.
His chin trembled. “Where am I supposed to go?”
I laughed once—sharp and humorless.
