After they left, Alan quietly removed Brian’s garage key from the hook near the back door.
“I should’ve done this sooner,” he said softly.
I leaned against the counter.
“We both wanted peace.”
Alan dropped the key into a drawer.
“That wasn’t peace.”
No.
It had only been silence.
The next morning, I explained things gently to the kids.
“Dad made choices that hurt trust,” I told them. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re loved. Some rules are just changing.”
Micah asked for extra syrup with breakfast.
Tyra slid her hand into mine beneath the table.
That weekend, Alan painted over the navy garage wall Brian had once insisted made the room feel “strong.”
When the garage door finally shut that evening, I didn’t flinch.
Brian had wanted a stage.
Instead, I gave him a closed curtain.