What I Learned When I Followed My Family One Friday Evening
When they finally noticed me, the silence was heavier than any argument could have been. My husband explained everything slowly, apologetically. He hadn’t wanted to burden me or make promises he couldn’t keep if the program failed. My son admitted he was afraid I’d think it was a waste of time. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t raise my voice. I cried—out of relief, out of pride, out of regret for the distance I’d let grow inside my own heart. That night, we talked longer than we had in years. The secret hadn’t been betrayal; it had been love, clumsy and well-intentioned, waiting to be shared.
