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.
“You never told me that.”
“You were at work,” my mother said faintly.
My father looked at her, then back at me. “I thought he was just being dramatic. He was nervous. Kept saying it was important, that it involved you. I told him whatever it was could wait.”
A coldness moved through me.
“Noah told me he was coming here,” I said slowly. “He said after he talked to you, everything would be easier.”
My father closed his eyes.
For the first time in my life, I saw him not as the immovable man who had thrown me out, but as someone standing in the shadow of a choice he could never undo.
“He left upset,” my mother whispered. “Your father thought he was protecting you.”
“Protecting me from what?” I asked.
Neither of them answered.
Leo tugged lightly on my sleeve. “Mom, who was Noah?”
I knelt in front of him. “He was your father.”
His face changed in small, careful ways. His eyebrows drew together. His mouth softened. He looked past me toward my parents, then down at the porch boards.
“My dad had a name,” he said.
I nodded, tears burning my eyes. “Yes. He had a name.”
