closed doors.
All the moments I had convinced myself David was hiding a daughter, a mistake, a betrayal against me.
He had been hiding his father’s betrayal instead.
“He knew,” I said slowly. “For how long?”
I had convinced myself David was hiding a daughter,
“Since before you married him.”
The words landed like a slap.
“Before we married,” I repeated.
“He told me he tried to say something a hundred times. He said his mother’s heart couldn’t take it. He said his father made him swear on his deathbed to keep it quiet.”
I laughed, and the sound was ugly, cracked and hollow.
“Since before you married him.”
“So he kept the promise to a dead man instead of telling his own wife. Fifteen years, Grace. Fifteen years of my life, and he couldn’t trust me with one truth.”
Grace lowered her head.
“He was ashamed. Not of me.