Page 64 of The Truth of Us

“She protected you both,” he said. “Every day. From my family, the press. From this name when it became too heavy. Eventually she let them get to know you. She had rules: their relationship was to be private and not for public gain.”

I hadn’t expected the story to get this far tonight, but maybe part of me needed to hear it.

“And then…”

The words failed. My father’s hand tightened around mine, then the room went quiet. Outside, the snow fell harder. I watched the fire blur.

“The story wasn’t true,” I said.

“No,” my father said, voice low. “It was not.”

“You never cheated on her.” I said, trying to keep the tears from falling.

“No,” the answer came immediately. “I would never have betrayed your mother.”

“I know.” And I did; I had always known. But the entire world had been willing to believe otherwise. That was the cruelty of it. A woman sold a fake story, and the press turned it into a spectacle. Reporters camped outside our gate. They followed us relentlessly. No one cared about the truth, that her story had no merit; they screamed my father’s name like love was a scandal and our pain was entertainment. And then my mother went to get my brother from school because reporters had found him there. Because he was afraid, and she was protecting him.

My father looked into the fire. “I should have been the one to go get him.”

“Dad,” I whispered.

“I should have sent security.”

“Dad,” the word broke.

“I should have…”

“No,” the word came out stronger than I expected. I sat up and turned toward him. His face was composed, but his eyes were not. Even after all these years, the guilt still lived there, a permanent resident.

“No,” I said again.

His jaw flexed. “I was supposed to protect them.”

“And Mom was trying to protect Will.”

The pain on his face almost undid me. “She always did,” he whispered.

I folded myself back to his side because neither of us could survive looking at each other, because we both knew how that story ended.

For a while, there was only the fire, the snow. The ghost of a woman who died protecting her family and the echo of a boy who should have grown into a man.

Finally, my father kissed the top of my head. “You have her heart, you know.”

I closed my eyes, adding, “And your stubbornness.”

“Unfortunately for you.” A small laugh moved through him. Then he said, “She would be very proud of you.”

That broke me more than anything else could have. Because I was not sure I was proud of myself. I had been hiding for years. Behind my mother's maiden name and the need to control the narrative, control the truth. Behind perfect clothes and polished smiles, and professional distance. I had told myself I was building something, and maybe I was. But maybe my father was right. Maybe somewhere along the way, I had become so good at protecting myself that I forgot to let anyone know me. Maybe the tragedy was not that I had trusted Elliot. Maybe the tragedy was that I had trusted someone who had not earned the parts of me I was ready to give.

“I almost told him,” I whispered.

My father went still.

“My real name… everything.”

His hand moved over my hair again. Slow and steady. “And why didn’t you?”

I laughed softly. “Timing.”