Then another thought would crash through the practical questions.
He touched me after touching her.
I would feel sick again.
Sometime after sunset, there was a soft knock on the bedroom door.
“Come in.”
My father entered.
Dad had always been the safest person in my life.
When I was six and afraid of thunderstorms, he used to sit on the floor beside my bed until I fell asleep.
When I failed my driving test the first time, he bought me ice cream and told me that one bad afternoon wasn’t a character assessment.
When Daniel asked for permission to marry me, Dad had cried afterward.
He adored him.
Or I thought he did.
Dad sat on the edge of the bed.
For a while, he said nothing.
Then:
“Your mom told me what happened.”
I looked at him.
“I’m divorcing him.”
The certainty in my voice surprised even me.
