I couldn’t bring myself to place Dad’s betrayal on top of everything else she was carrying.
Maybe keeping quiet was cowardice.
Maybe it was kindness.
At nineteen, I honestly didn’t know.
A month later, Mom died.
The funeral passed in pieces I barely remember.
People hugged me.
Coffee sat untouched on folding tables.
Lisa cried harder than almost anyone.
Dad stood beside the casket looking completely shattered.
Strangely, I hated him most when his grief appeared genuine.
Because if he truly loved Mom enough to mourn her, how had he also been able to betray her?
Three weeks later, Dad called.
“Kristen, I wanted you to hear this directly from me.”
I already knew what was coming.
He and Lisa were engaged.
Dad had already moved into her house while they prepared for the wedding.
He spoke slowly, like he had rehearsed every sentence.
“Grief can bring people together in unexpected ways. Lisa and I leaned on each other, and somewhere along the way—”
