Near the end of the service, Troy’s father, Frank, came toward me.
He was grieving badly and had clearly been drinking. His face was red, his voice uneven, and his anger seemed to have nowhere else to go.
He leaned close and said, “You never knew what he was protecting you from.”
I froze.
Before I could answer, he muttered something that changed the ground beneath me.
There had never been another woman.
Troy had stayed silent because he believed the truth would hurt me more than his distance.
Then my children guided Frank away before he could say anything else.
But his words stayed with me.
For the first time in two years, the story I had built around Troy began to crack.