someday open a door he couldn’t control.
People who’ve heard this story always divide in the same place.
Some say my father should have told me everything sooner, that secrecy is its own kind of damage and that protecting someone by lying to them is still lying.
Others say he saw Ryan clearly, built me a safety net, and saved me on the night I needed it most.
I understand both arguments.
I still don’t know which part aches more: that my husband betrayed me, or that my father loved me enough to prepare for it.
What I do know is that the soft click I heard on the porch that night was not my life ending.
It was the wrong door closing.
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