“You don’t have to decide everything today,” she said. “You don’t have to forgive anyone today. I just couldn’t stand lying to you anymore.”
I stared at the family photos on her wall.
My dad in his favorite chair. Me at six, missing two teeth. My kids as toddlers.
My parents holding my firstborn.
Somewhere, in a different house, Alyssa had been growing up with a different set of photos, a different narrative, the same man at the center.
“Does Mark know?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Mom said. “You’re the first.”
I took a breath that felt like it scraped my ribs. “Call her,” I said.
“Ask her to come back tonight. I want to talk to her.”
Mom blinked. “Are you sure?”
“No,” I said.
“But do it anyway.”
Alyssa came back in jeans and a sweater, hair down. Without the scrubs, she looked younger. More vulnerable.
She sat on the edge of the armchair across from me, hands folded so tightly her knuckles were white.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “For taking your hair. For not telling you sooner.
For… all of it.”
“Is it true?” I asked. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I did two tests,” she said.
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