I almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because the question hurt in a place I thought had healed.
“I tried,” I said. “You wouldn’t listen.”
My father looked away.
“I said it would affect all of us. I said one day you’d understand. But you were so angry that you decided my silence meant guilt.”
My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Emma…”
“Noah and I were together for almost a year,” I continued. “We kept it quiet because we wanted to be sure it was real before both families got involved. Then I found out I was pregnant. Noah was scared at first, but happy. He said he wanted to tell everyone properly.”
My voice trembled.
“He died three days later.”
The words hung between us.
I had said them before, to myself, in the dark. To doctors. To forms that asked for father’s information. To Leo when he was finally old enough to ask why his dad wasn’t at school plays.
But saying them on that porch felt different.
It felt like opening a locked room.
My father rubbed a hand over his face. “Noah came here,” he said.
I froze.
“What?”
“The night before the accident.” His voice was rough. “He came by. Said he needed to talk to me.”
My heart began to pound.
