The silence between us thickened. I didn’t answer—couldn’t, when he asked so plainly. He took a sip of coffee, his free hand tracing the marble counter’s edge like he was restraining himself from reaching for me.
“You know what hurts more than you pulling away?” he asked.
“What?”
“The fact that I don’t even know if I deserve to be mad about it.” The cup hit the counter harder than intended. “I’ve done terrible things. For your father. For this family. Some with your blessing, some without. If you’re questioning me—if you’ve found something you’re trying to understand—just tell me. I can take it. You can tell me anything.”
His voice cracked on the last word, not with weakness, but as if forcing it past a barricade in his throat.
I wanted to confess. God, how I wanted to. To drag out Pa
