He admitted he had left the pan unattended.
Everyone called it an accident.
For a while, I believed that was the worst thing he had done.
I was wrong.
My father, Daniel, stayed with us during the first months of my mother’s recovery.
He drove her to appointments, brought home groceries, and thanked the doctors who treated her.
Whenever visitors came, he played the part of a devoted husband.
He held my mother’s hand in public.
He told people he was grateful his family had survived.
But when we were alone, something changed.
He stopped sitting beside her on the couch.
He stopped kissing her goodbye.
If she reached for his hand, he found a reason to stand up.
One evening, I heard them arguing in the kitchen.
“I can’t do this anymore,” my father said.
My mother was sitting at the table. I could see her through the gap in the doorway.
