I don’t mean I cried politely. I collapsed against his chest and sobbed like I was eleven years old again. I sobbed like fifteen years of being too good for him had finally caught up and demanded payment.
He held me. He didn’t say “it’s okay” because it wasn’t. He didn’t say “I forgive you” because I hadn’t asked yet. He just held me while I ruined his flannel with mascara and everything I’d been saving up.
Inside, the house smelled the same. Coffee and engine oil and my mother’s lavender soap he still kept because he couldn’t throw it out.
He made me coffee. Black. He remembered.
I put the velvet box on the kitchen table between us.
“Dad. Why didn’t you tell me about the ring? About Mom’s letter?”
“She made me promise. Said if I told you, it’d feel like a gift from me. She wanted it to feel like a gift from her.”
“I had you arrested.”
“I know.”
“I lied about you to a cop.”
