“But he loved you.”
“He did.”
“He loved me too.”
“Yes.”
I stared down the dark staircase.
“He loved us both. He simply handled that love badly.”
Grace wiped her face with her sleeve.
“I never wanted to replace anyone.”
“You could not replace him.”
“I meant your children.”
“You cannot replace them either.”
“Then what am I?”
I looked at her.
The question carried sixteen years of uncertainty.
I opened my arm.
She hesitated, then leaned against me.
“We will figure that out,” I said. “But not tonight.”
We cried together on the stairs.
We grieved the same man from opposite sides of his secret.
A bedroom door opened behind us.
My daughter appeared in the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
She looked at Grace’s packed bag.
