Dad nodded.
Then he moved toward the door.
“Dad?”
He turned.
“Thanks.”
His expression softened.
“For what?”
I thought about it.
Not the lie.
Not exactly.
“For being there.”
His eyes became glossy.
“Always.”
He started to leave.
Then I smiled.
“And Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever tell me again that cheating is ‘male physiology,’ I’m telling Mom.”
For a second, he stared at me.
Then he laughed.
“Fair.”
From down the hallway, Mom shouted:
“I already know!”
Dad closed his eyes.
I burst out laughing.
Noah stirred in the crib.
Dad whispered, “Now you’ve done it.”
“You’re the one who lied.”
“Ancient history.”
“Absolutely not.”
And standing there in my childhood bedroom, laughing quietly while my newborn son slept beside us, something inside me finally felt lighter.
My family hadn’t protected me by making my life painless.
They couldn’t.
They protected me by giving me somewhere safe to fall when it wasn’t.
