Just the quiet hush of breeze and birds.
And then I saw her.
Down by the edge of the farm, sitting alone on the wooden fence, balancing far better than I could. Her back was to me, hair loose now, swaying gently in the wind.
I didn’t call out again. I just walked.
Every step felt like it carried the weight of every word I should’ve said earlier. Every look I didn’t explain. Every vulnerable inch I’d kept hidden.
She didn’t turn when I got close and didn’t speak.
So I climbed up beside her, perching on the fence like we were two kids hiding from something too big to name.
The silence stretched, and I let it because I didn’t deserve to be the one to break it first.
Finally, she said, “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”
I shook my head. “You had every right to.”
She glanced at me then, her eyes dark and tired. “You didn’t answer.”
I met her gaze and forced the truth past my tongue.
“No. I’m not married. I’m not with anyone. I haven’t been in a long time.”
She swallowed. “Then why didn’t you just say that?”
I exhaled. “Because I didn’t want to lie by omission.”
Her brow furrowed.
“I was married once,” I said quietly. “And I spent years making sure someone else had everything they needed, even if it meant burying everything I wanted. I stayed in a life that didn’t fit because I didn’t know how to quit. It turned out she liked being married to a lawyer but not to me.”
She didn’t speak. But her hand slowly found mine.
“I didn’t want to do that to you,” I said. “Didn’t want to give you half of me. Didn’t want to give you only the parts that were safe. So, no. I’m not married, but I have been and I screwed itup by making my job a priority, by marrying someone that didn’t truly love me but loved my title.”
The wind picked up.
She leaned her head against my shoulder.
And for the first time, I let her hold the weight with me.
“My parents were alcoholics.” I stilled.
She looked at me, searching.
“My childhood was loud,” I continued, the words coming slowly and deliberately. “Loud and full of arguments. There was never a quiet dinner. Never a calm morning. Always tension. Always something brewing.”
My heart clenched, thinking about it. I wasn’t just telling a story, I was letting her into my world, unearthing something buried.
“I was eleven when my dad got his third DUI,” I said, and that number—third—landed like a punch. “I remember standing at the door when the deputy knocked. He had his hat in his hand. Looked like he hated being there when a kid answers.”
“I’m sorry.” And I knew she meant it.
“But the worst part?” I went on. “It wasn’t the arrest. It wasn’t the license getting taken or the jail time. It was my parents. The way they reacted.”
Her eyes didn’t judge, and she held my hand.
