“But you stayed together.”
“We chose each other. Again and again. Even when it was difficult.”
Daniel closed the album.
“I thought marriage meant protecting your spouse no matter what.”
“Marriage means being loyal,” I said. “But loyalty without honesty can become something very dangerous.”
He sat with that for a long time.
Then he said, “I wish I’d understood that sooner.”
“So do I.”
He reached for my hand.
This time, I let him hold it.
Not because everything had been repaired.
But because he had finally stopped pretending nothing was broken.
By autumn, life had settled into a new rhythm.
June came every other Sunday and often brought a school friend. Ruth joined us for dinner whenever she felt like escaping her own kitchen. Daniel visited regularly, and we gradually found our way back to conversations that didn’t revolve around the terrible things that had happened.
One Saturday, Daniel offered to repair the scratch on the dining table.
I hesitated.
For months, I had treated that mark like a wound.
Then I nodded.
We moved the table closer to the window so the afternoon sunlight would reach the damaged surface.
Daniel carefully examined the wood.
“Dad really knew what he was doing,” he said.
“He loved working with his hands.”
Daniel turned the table slightly, checking the underside.
Then he frowned.
“Mom, did you know there’s a little compartment under here?”
I looked up.
“What compartment?”
He crouched beside the table.
“There’s a wooden panel fitted into the frame. It’s almost invisible.”
I bent down.
