I caught it before
it fell.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he bent forward with both hands on his knees.
“No.”
This time the word was barely audible.
I stood.
“Daniel.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Sweetheart.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long, Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned toward me.
His eyes were wet.
“When did you find out?”
“Today.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw the messages.”
“What messages?”
I told him about the shared tablet.
Same place.
Daniel’s on his night shift.
His face collapsed.
That sentence hurt him more than the photograph.
Because the photograph could still belong to madness.
The message belonged to planning.
To secrecy.
To betrayal repeated often enough to have a schedule.
Daniel walked toward my father’s grave and pressed his palms against the cold stone.
For a moment, I thought he might be sick.
Then he whispered, “Three months.”
