“I know,” I whispered. “I know I should’ve told you.”
“She lied to us, Nika,” Angela hissed, turning to her sister. Then she called to the driver: “Take everything to the old address—she knows it.”
“Girls, please…”
The front door closed. The lock turned. The sound hit me like a blow.
The driver avoided my eyes as he climbed into the cab. The truck rolled away as the rain fell harder.
I stood on the front step, completely alone, until my legs carried me to my car.
My old house smelled of dust and years of memories. I turned on the kitchen light and stood in the room where I had helped with homework, baked birthday cakes, and waited up for them after college parties.
Every corner held a memory I hadn’t asked to relive. The silence was unbearable.
I sat at the table and let the tears come. I should have told them when they were old enough to understand. I had years of chances. But I chose silence every time, calling it protection.
It wasn’t protection. It was fear disguised as something noble.
