“What did she mean when she said you have to tell me?”
His eyes snapped open. And for the first time since the accident, I saw something on his face that wasn’t anger or exhaustion.
It was fear.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
He turned his head away. I dragged the visitor’s chair closer and sat down.
“What am I supposed to know, Daniel?”
“Nothing.”
“Daniel.”
“Can you just leave?”
“No.”
His fingers twisted into the blanket. “Mom, please.”
That word stopped me cold. Please. He sounded about ten years old.
For illustrative purposes only
I softened my voice. “Did you cheat on her?”
His head jerked toward me. “No.”
“Did she cheat on you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
A long, heavy silence. The television murmured in the corner. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattled past.
Finally, he said, “The accident wasn’t exactly an accident.”
Every part of me went cold.
