Our girls were in the living room building a blanket fort.
Six-year-old Maddie looked up first.
“Daddy?”
Nine-year-old Claire saw my face and stood very still.
Kids know.
They always know.
Emily sent them gently upstairs with a promise of cartoons and apple slices.
Then she led me into the kitchen, sat me down, and waited.
So I told her.
I told her everything.
About the woman.
About the hospital.
About the missed calls.
About Nick’s face.
About the sentence I couldn’t get out of my head.
Yes. You were supposed to keep driving.
Emily listened without interrupting, one hand over her mouth.
When I finished, she sat down across from me and stared at the table for a moment.
Then she looked up.
“You did the right thing.”
I laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“The right thing got me fired.”
“No,” she said quietly. “A cruel man fired you. That’s not the same thing.”
