For a moment, my father doesn’t answer. He just stands there, looking at me like he’s measuring something he can’t take back once it’s said. The silence stretches long enough that I feel it in my chest, not sharp, not suffocating, but heavy in a way that makes it clear this isn’t hesitation born from uncertainty.
He knows. He’s always known. And whatever the truth is, it isn’t something he ever intended for me to carry, but that choice is gone now.
“You were never just human,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before, stripped of the control he’s been holding onto. “We told you that because it was easier. Because it let you grow up without looking over your shoulder at every shadow, without questioning every instinct that didn’t make sense.”
I don’t interrupt. I don’t move. I just
