Leah
I told Bella about Liam after school on Thursday.
Not all of it.
She was six. She needed the truth with the sharp parts wrapped up. She didn’t need affair, cancer, custody fight, foster care, lawyer letter, or Ruth Lockhart pretending I didn’t exist while I sat at her dinner table and tried to be easier to love.
Bella needed the kid version.
Then Jacob needed the real one.
I picked Bella up from school, listened to a full report about the playground cat possibly having “a secret door somewhere,” and drove home without turning on the radio.
Bella noticed by the second stoplight.
“Mommy,” she said from the back seat, “why is the car quiet?”
“My brain is loud.”
“Oh.” She kicked one heel gently against the back of my seat. “Is it a bad loud?”
“A grown-up loud.”
“That’s usually
