Mark took a step back, narrowing his eyes. He was realizing, slowly and painfully, that this time there was no story he could concoct fast enough to save face.
I didn’t engage. I didn’t argue. I simply took Ethan’s backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and said, “We’re leaving.”
As we walked toward the entrance, the yard remained painfully silent. I could feel dozens of eyes on my back, but for the first time in years, the attention didn’t hurt: it felt liberating.
Once in the car, Ethan let out a shaky sigh. “Mom,” he whispered, “are you mad at me?”
I turned in my seat and gently cupped his cheeks. “Mad? Ethan, you told the truth. You stood up for someone you love. That’s bravery. I’m proud of you.”
He smiled faintly, still exhausted from the emotional weight he’d carried. “I just didn’t want them to lie about you anymore.”
That sentence—simple, sincere—broke the last bit of bitterness inside me.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I saw Linda standing alone among the empty lawn chairs, watching us go with an expression I’d never seen on her face before: regret, real and raw.
Later that night, as I tucked Ethan into bed, I finally allowed myself to breathe. The truth had come out. The burden had shifted. And for the first time since the divorce, I felt like the story was finally back in my hands, not his.
