GAVIN
I remember walking into school and everyone—even my teachers—went silent as soon as I walked in. I remember a girl I liked asking if my mom was going to divorce “the cheating actor.”
“You knew it would hurt me,” I say, voice tight.
“I didn’t expect it to reach you like that. I told her to leave you out of it.”
“She didn’t.”
“I know.” He looks genuinely regretful.
But regret doesn’t put years back on the clock.
I cross my arms. “You could’ve reached out. Told me the truth.”
“You told me not to. Said you never wanted to see me again.”
“I was a teenager.”
More regret heaps onto the lines on his face. “I thought staying away was doing you a favor. I thought, if she could win the public over, maybe she could convince you to hate me and you’d still have your mom.”
“A mom who lie
