Aunt Lydia was the only one on his side who didn’t pretend we imagined what he did. She came by one Sunday with store-bought cookies and gossip she clearly didn’t enjoy sharing.
“That man has always cared more about looking successful than actually being it,” she muttered when Mom wasn’t in the room.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together. “It means don’t believe what you see on his Instagram.”
“We stopped looking a while ago. Even Nora blocked him, and she used to check it constantly.”
Lydia nodded. “Good. That’s for the best.”
A year passed. There were still quiet nights, still moments when the damage showed.
But Mom wasn’t broken the same way anymore. She had her own income, her own routines. She rebuilt her life without waiting to be chosen.
Then one evening, the past came back.
