“What?” I choke out.

At long last, he looks at me, the grief in his eyes so deep and wide it’s like staring into the origin of heartache. It makes my own eyes well. I blink, my vision clearing in time to watch a tear roll down my father’s face.

“To this day, your mother is the most generous, selfless person I’ve ever met. She planted the seed, separately, in both Abigail and me. Then she watered it and watched it grow. It made her happy to see us learning to care for each other. I think it gave her hope that we’d be okay when she was gone. There’s no way I can explain it, justify it… but that’s the God’s honest truth.”

I wipe my eyes roughly. “I don’t believe you,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No way. She loved you too much.”

His smile, so broken and sad, shows me clearly the unhealed crack in his heart. “Perhaps that was the problem. We loved each other too much. Initially, I did it because she wanted me to. I was insane with grief, waiting for the bomb that would end my world.”

He rubs his eyes; when they lift, they’re red and… old. I’ve never seen him look so old. “For the briefest time, Abigail helped soften my pain. But she was a Band-Aid, not a cure. Giving in to the request was the biggest mistake of my life, and the betrayal destroyed me. There were times after Delilah passed that the only reason I kept living was for you kids.”

I fall back in the chair, my hands over my face. A sob tries to wiggle up my throat but I force it down. “This is unreal. I can’t even process this.”

“Let me ask you something, Candace—given what I’ve just told you, does it seem out of character for your mother?”

I see her so clearly in my mind’s eye. Long, unbound hair, tinkling bracelets, and paint-smeared t-shirts. She’d been a hippie in her youth, exceedingly liberal on all fronts. My refined, businessman father and his free-spirited, artistic wife had been Opposites Attract personified.

But regardless of their differences, there’s no doubt in my mind—when I pause and look past the confusion and pain of her final years—that what they had was wholly remarkable. Their love for each other and for their children permeated my young life. It was the main reason the perceived betrayal was so devastating for me.

Can I imagine my mom finding joy in seeing her husband with another woman?

Yes—goddamnit all—I can.

I finally answer my father’s question. “No, it doesn’t seem out of character. I… I believe you.” My voice is thick with emotion. “Does anyone else know?”

“Only you and Nona, who had the misfortune in those early months of reminding me daily why I should stay alive.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my heart aching, too full, too confused.

I expect a canned response along the lines of “when you’re a parent, you’ll understand,” but all he says is, “I’m sorry, Candace. So very sorry for hurting you.”

I think of all my failed relationships, the years spent running from commitment, and most recently from my feelings for Sebastian. The meaningless sex, my broken picker that seemed stuck on asshole. And finally, the bitter irony of digging myself into a hole of anxiety and depression over… what? A single overheard conversation? A lesson in maturity I was too young to understand, that which proves the inherent, messy, humanness of life?

Because I understand now. That life is messy and painful and lovely, and all of those facts together are what make it both perfect and quintessentially human.

My father’s quiet voice pulls me from my existential spiral. “Please don’t let this affect your choice about Sebastian. You both deserve happiness. Frankly, I can’t imagine two people more suited to each other. Except maybe Alex and Thea.”

I give him a watery smile, which he returns.

Does what I’ve learned undo the pain of the past? No. Not for either of us. But I do feel… cleaner.

Lighter.

I wipe my face a final time. “For the record, if I’m destined to go out like Mom, I’m chaining Sebastian to the bedpost. I’ll borrow rope from Alex.”

He winces. “What do you kids say these days? T-M-I? Too much information, right?”

I nod, laughing, then find I can’t stop. A few moments later, my father’s bemusement turns to mirth, and eventually our laughter fades to smiles.

“Can I stay a while?” I ask, nodding toward the television. “Watch some videos with you?”

He blinks hard, clearing his throat. “Of course. How about the ones from that last summer?”

My heart pulses with the old, familiar ache, but it’s less potent than usual. A wound without poison, one that even now is healing. There will always be a scar, but a scar alone is oddly comforting.

Scars mean a life has been lived.

I nod, grinning. “There’s a lot of shirtless-Sebastian running around in those, right?”

My father groans. “TMI, Candace!”