He stood up, brushing dirt off his knees, grabbing his jacket off the lawn chair with a violent tug, and walked toward the side gate without another word. The slam of the wooden latch echoed through the quiet yard.
Mallory didn’t follow him. She sank into a lawn chair and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
My mother slowly set her glass down on the table. Her hands were trembling. She looked at me, really looked at me, as if seeing the scars under my skin for the very first time.
“Laurel…” my mother whispered, her voice fragile. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
“Because you wanted peace, Mom,” I said, standing straight beside my children. “And I thought giving you peace meant taking the hits for everyone else.”
I turned my head toward my husband, who was still standing near the patio steps, isolated from the rest of us.
