“You knew?”
“Grace thinks her mother lives in the basement.”
He closed his eyes. “I know.”
That hit hard.
“You knew?”
“Not at first. Then she kept saying it, and I… I didn’t correct her the way I should have.”
“That is not a small mistake.”
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to ask.
“I know.”
I looked around the room. The cardigan. The rain boots. The little tea set.
“Why keep it like this?”
His answer came fast. “Because down here, she was still part of the house.”
That sat between us for a long time.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to ask.
I hated how honest that was.
“Why did you marry me if you were still living like this?”
He went still.
“Because I love you,” he said.
“Do you?”
His face fell.
I stepped closer. “Do you love me, or did you love that I could help carry the life she left behind?”
“I was ashamed.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away.
Finally he said, “Both.”
I hated how honest that was.
I folded my arms. “You asked me to build a life with you while lying about a locked room full of grief.”
“I was ashamed.”
“You should have been truthful.”
Something in me softened.
“I know.”
I pointed upstairs. “Those girls need memories. Not a room they think their mother lives in.”
His voice dropped. “I know.”
“This is not healthy. For them or for you.”
He sat there like he had nothing left in him. “I don’t know how to let go.”
Something in me softened.
The pipe kept dripping into the bucket.
Not because this was okay. It wasn’t.
Because it was finally honest.
“You do not have to let go of her,” I said. “But you do have to stop pretending she lives in a locked room.”
He covered his face.
The pipe kept dripping into the bucket.
Then I said, “We need to fix the leak. And you need therapy.”
