My sister dumped a glass of wine all over my six-year-old son’s birthday artwork while the room filled with laughter. Mom rushed to protect the tablecloth—not my child. I said nothing, until my dad suddenly stood up, removed his wedding ring, and let it fall into the pool of red. Then he pulled out a leather notebook he’d kept hidden for years… and ten minutes later…

Breaking the chain meant guarding the door.

“Mom!” Jacob called, pulling me back to the present.

He held up the piece of wood he’d just cut. The edge was a little rough, but the angle was solid.

“Look,” he said. “We did the corner.”

“You did,” I corrected, smiling. “I didn’t do anything. Grandpa supervised, and you did the work.”

David glanced up, meeting my eyes over Jacob’s head.

There was an apology there still, deep and quiet, but there was also something like relief. He had told me, one late evening after Jacob was asleep and dishes were done, about the night he found out the truth about Jessica’s hit-and-run.

“I knew something was wrong,” he’d said, staring into his coffee. “Your mother’s story didn’t add up. But I let it go. I let her talk me out of asking too many questions. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to keep the peace.”

He had looked at me then, eyes wet.

“I watched you girls grow up in that house,” he’d said. “I watched Susan pour everything into Jessica and…take you for granted. I told myself you were stronger, that you didn’t need as much. That was my story. It kept me from having to do the hard thing. I’m so ashamed of that.”

He had paused, then said, very softly, “I watched the cracks forming, and I did nothing. That’s not what I do. Not at work. Not ever.”

“It’s what you did at home,” I had said.

I hadn’t said it to hurt him. Just to make it true.

He had nodded.

“And now?” I’d asked.

“Now,” he’d said, taking a breath, “I’m trying to be the man you thought I was.”

Watching him with Jacob now, patient and present and deliberate, I believed him.

Jacob clambered to his feet and came over, collapsing into my lap despite being almost too big for it now. His legs dangled long and bony over mine.

“After this one,” he said, “can we make a frame for the lake painting?”

My arms tightened around him.

“We already did, baby,” I said. “Remember? It’s at Grandpa’s.”

He shook his head, hair flopping into his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I mean the new one.”

I blinked.

“The new one?” I echoed.

He nodded, eyes bright.

“I want to paint the lake again,” he said. “But this time, with the storm. Like, half sunny, half dark? With the rain on one side and the cabin on the other.”

He paused, thinking. Continue reading…