“Laura had made her choice.”
“She knew what she was doing.”
“No 16-year-old knows what 40 years feels like.”
He flinched.
“What happened before she left?”
“She knew what she was doing.”
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“I caught her at the gate with Thomas. I told her to come inside.”
His voice cracked.
“I told her if she walked out with him, she shouldn’t expect to come back.”
“I told her to come inside.”
My eyes burned.
“You said that to your 16-year-old daughter?”
“I didn’t think she’d go.”
“But she did. And six years later, she came back anyway.”
Dad covered his face.
I didn’t let him hide there.
“What did you say in 1992?”
“I told her she couldn’t just return and tear everyone open again.”
“Did Mom say that?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Did Laura?”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“So who were you protecting?”
“All of you.”
“Emelia…”
“You were protecting yourself from admitting you were wrong.”
His mouth trembled.
“I was ashamed.”
“I know.”
That was the hardest part.
I understood how one bad choice had hardened into years of silence.
But understanding wasn’t forgiveness.
“Did Laura ask about
me?”
Dad looked down.
My chest tightened.
“What did she ask?”
“Whether you blamed her.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That you’d suffered because of what she did.”
I stared at him.
“Did you tell her I searched?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her Mom never stopped?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her I would’ve opened that door?”
His eyes filled.
“No.”
I stood.
“You didn’t protect us, Dad. You spoke for us.”
He started crying.
At 90, he looked smaller than I’d ever seen him.
For most of my life, that would’ve been enough to make me stop, but not that day.
“I love you.”
He looked up.
“But love doesn’t make what you did smaller.”
“I thought I was saving the family.”
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