That small movement hurt him more than anything I could have said.
“Buddy,” Daniel said, voice cracking, “come on. Don’t be like that.”
Noah looked confused.
“Why did you say Mom died?”
Daniel had no answer fit for a child.
I put my hand on Noah’s shoulder.
“We’re leaving.”
Daniel grabbed my arm.
“Maya, do you understand what you’ve done?”
I looked down at his hand until he let go.
“Yes. I corrected your obituary.”
Then I took my son and walked out of the church.
Outside, Charleston sunlight hit my face like heat from an opened oven. Behind us, the wedding collapsed into shouting and sobs and the frantic movement of people whose perfect afternoon had become evidence.
Noah was quiet until we reached the corner.
Then he asked, “Is Dad not coming home?”
I knelt on the sidewalk, uncaring that strangers were staring.
“No, baby. Not to our home.”
“Because he lied?”
“Yes.”
He thought about that.
“Did he lie because of me?”
I pulled him close.
