Celeste removed the ring from her finger.
Marcus noticed immediately. “Celeste, wait.”
She placed it on the side table, not dramatically, not with anger, but with devastating calm. “I’m not leaving because you have children. I’m leaving this room because I need to understand whether I was engaged to a man who made one terrible mistake or a man who built his life on avoiding truth.”
Then she turned to me. “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t fix anything.”
“No,” I said. “But I appreciate it.”
She nodded, eyes shining, and walked toward the hallway.
Marcus looked as if every direction had become a locked door.
From the sitting room, laughter suddenly rose. Olivia’s bright giggle. Ethan’s lower chuckle. A child’s laugh can be merciful, but that morning it felt like a bell ringing over a battlefield everyone was pretending not to see.
Patricia turned toward the sound. “May I meet them?”
“No,” I said.
Her face crumpled.
“Not like this,” I added. “Not while everyone is overwhelmed and secrets are still falling out of the walls.”
She nodded quickly, wiping her cheeks. “Of course. Of course.”
Marcus took one step toward me. “Kesha, I need to see them.”
“You just did.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
His eyes were wet now, and I hated that part of me still recognized him beneath the years. The man who used to dance barefoot with me in the kitchen. The man who once cried during a documentary about lost dogs and denied it afterward. The man who kissed my forehead every morning before work until the mornings became colder and the kisses became rare.
But memory is not forgiveness. And regret is not repair.
“They know about you,” I said.
Marcus froze.
“I never told them you were dead. I never told them you were evil. I told them their father wasn’t ready to be part of our family, and that grown-ups sometimes make choices children can’t fix.”
He lowered his head.
