His jaw tightened.
“You weren’t there when I got the result.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked toward the window.
“What did you hear that day?”
Carl was silent for so long I wondered if he would answer.
Finally, he said, “I heard that whatever killed Emily had been inside me first.”
My anger shifted.
But it did not disappear.
“So you decided her death was your fault.”
He said nothing.
“You thought leaving would make things better?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
He looked at me.
“Then staying gone became easier than admitting what I had done.”
My chest tightened.
“You didn’t destroy this family the day you left, Carl.”
He flinched.
“You destroyed it again every year you chose not to come back.”
He lowered his head.
I had dreamed of this confrontation countless times.
In some versions, I slapped him.
In others, I screamed.
Sometimes I imagined him giving me an explanation so perfect that all the anger vanished.
Reality was worse.
Because his explanation was human.
Weak.
Painful.
Understandable in places.
And still completely inadequate.
“Why did you leave Lily?”
His eyes filled.
“Every time I looked at her, I saw Emily.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
