The truth doesn’t arrive all at once.
It never does. It comes in pieces, delivered carefully, like something sharp wrapped in layers so it doesn’t cut the wrong person too deeply. Something meant to be handled slowly. Respectfully. With control.
Damian takes the call in his office with the door closed. I know because the house feels different when he does. Quieter. Tighter. Like it’s holding its breath along with me. Even the usual background sounds seem muted. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The faint tick of the clock above the stove. Everything feels restrained.
I sit at the kitchen table with a mug I haven’t touched. The coffee has gone lukewarm, then cold, but I don’t notice until much later. My fingers trace the rim again and again, a nervous loop I can’t seem to break. Ceramic.
