Chương 7
After she left for school, I called Michael.
He answered immediately.
“Hey.”
His voice sounded like he had not slept.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Did you sleep?”
A small pause.
“Not really.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Tell me what I don’t know.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Her name was Daniel.”
I knew immediately he meant Ava’s father.
“What about him?”
“Brooke worked with him before she moved here.”
“How did they know each other?”
“She was an assistant at a marketing company.”
“And he?”
“Sales manager.”
I waited.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
The word was heavy.
“They were friends outside of work.”
“How close?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said last night she knew him better than she should have.”
Michael sighed.
“I asked her that.”
“And?”
“She said they crossed boundaries.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“She wouldn’t define it.”
“Michael.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice rose.
“You don’t get to say you know anymore.”
He went silent.
I immediately regretted the sharpness.
Not because he did not deserve it.
Because I knew he was already carrying guilt.
But guilt was complicated.
Sometimes it made people change.
Sometimes it made them want forgiveness before they had earned it.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I understand.”
“No.”
A pause.
“I’m not saying that to be polite.”
“I know.”
“I’m angry because Ava was sitting there with crackers while everyone else ate because adults were afraid of conversations.”
Michael swallowed.
“I know.”
This time, I believed him.
“What happened with Daniel?”
“He left.”
“When?”
“Before Ava was born.”
I closed my eyes.
The kitchen suddenly felt too bright.
“Did Brooke know about Ava before she met you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She saw photos.”
“That’s all?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
Michael exhaled.
“She told me she searched for him after he contacted her.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to know why he was reaching out.”
“And what did she find?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
The answer bothered me.
Not because it was shocking.
Because it created a pattern.
Missing information.
Delayed conversations.
People deciding they could manage the truth for everyone else.
“Did Daniel threaten her?”
“No.”
“Did he ask for money?”
“No.”
“Then why hide it?”
Michael was quiet.
Finally, he said, “Because she was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked out the window.
A neighbor was watering plants.
A man across the street loaded groceries into his car.
The world was continuing normally.
That always felt strange after something happened that changed your own life.
“What are you going to do?”
Michael did not answer immediately.
“I don’t know.”
I almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was the first honest answer anyone had given me in days.
“I think I need to talk to Daniel.”
My stomach tightened.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Brooke has his number.”
“And she gave it to you?”
“No.”
That did not surprise me.
“Then how are you going to find him?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Michael.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight.”
“Good.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened.”
I believed him.
But understanding had consequences.
Once you knew something, you could not return to not knowing.
That was the part people rarely talked about.
Truth did not always make life easier.
Sometimes it only removed the comfort of pretending.
“Sarah.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s something else.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course there was.
“What?”
“She told me Daniel asked about Ava’s medical history.”
The room went still.
“Why would he ask that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she tell him?”
“I don’t know.”
The same phrase again.
A phrase that was becoming a wall between all of us.
“I need to talk to Brooke myself,” I said.
Michael hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“She might not tell you everything.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
I looked toward Ava’s empty chair.
Because my daughter had spent years accepting missing pieces of her own story.
Because adults had decided what she could handle.
Because nobody had asked her what she wanted to know.
“Because someone needs to stop deciding for Ava.”
Michael did not argue.
Later that afternoon, Brooke came to my house.
She stood on the porch without makeup, wearing jeans and a sweater instead of the wedding clothes everyone had seen the night before.
She looked exhausted.
Before she could speak, I opened the door.
“You have ten minutes.”
She nodded.
“I understand.”
I stepped aside.
She walked into my living room and looked around.
Her eyes landed on the framed pictures of Ava.
One from kindergarten.
One from a beach trip.
One from a science fair where she had a ribbon pinned to her shirt.
Brooke stared at that one longer than the others.
“She looks happy.”
“She is.”
Brooke nodded.
Then she whispered something that changed the entire conversation.
“I was jealous of that.”
I did not react the way she expected.
Maybe because I had spent too many years dealing with people who wanted forgiveness before they were ready to admit what they had done.
“You were jealous of my daughter.”
Brooke looked down.
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised me.
It did not make me forgive her.
It only made me listen.
“I hated that she had something with Michael that I could never have.”
I folded my arms.
“What does that mean?”
She sat on the edge of the chair.
“It means she knew him before I did.”
I stared at her.
“That’s what you were jealous of?”
“Not just that.”
Her voice became quieter.
“She had history with him.”
“Because she is his niece.”
“I know.”
“She was a child.”
“I know.”
The repetition was almost painful.
It sounded like someone finally hearing their own excuses out loud.
Brooke looked at the floor.
“I grew up in a house where I was always the extra person.”
I said nothing.
“My parents divorced when I was young.”
She swallowed.
“My dad started a new family.”
May you like
Her fingers twisted together.
“I was never anyone’s first choice.”
