They were printed emails. Old messages. A police report.
The date of the accident.
The route.
An address that was not his grandparents’ house.
My stomach rolled.
Jenna’s name.
I flipped through it, my brain trying to catch up.
There were messages between him and Jenna from that day.
“Can’t stay long,” he’d written. “Got to get back before she suspects.”
“Drive safe,” she’d replied. “Love you.”
“Tell me she’s lying.”
My stomach rolled.
“No,” I whispered.
My mom’s voice was sharp.
“He wasn’t driving to his grandparents that night,” she said. “He was driving home from his mistress.”
I looked at my husband.
“I was young and selfish.”
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.
He didn’t. He just started crying.
“Before the accident,” he said, voice cracking, “it was… it was stupid. I was stupid. Jenna and I… it was a few months, that’s all.”
“A few months,” I repeated.
He swallowed.
“I thought I loved you both,” he said miserably. “I know how that sounds. I was young and selfish.”
“So the night of the accident, you were driving home from her.”
He nodded, eyes squeezed shut.
“I was leaving her place when I hit the ice. Spun out. Woke up in the hospital.”
“And the grandparents’ story?” I asked.
“I was scared.”
.”I panicked. I knew you. I knew if you thought I’d done nothing wrong, you’d stay. You’d fight for me. And if you knew the truth…”
“I might have left,” I finished.
He nodded.
“So you lied,” I said. “You let me think you were an innocent victim. You let me burn my life down for you based on a lie.”
“She looked awful.”
“I was scared. Then time passed, and it felt too late. Every year, it gets harder to tell you. I hated myself, but I couldn’t risk losing you.”
I turned to my mother.
“How do you know all this?”
She exhaled.
“You let me choose you over my parents.”
“I ran into Jenna at the grocery store,” she said. “She looked awful. She told me she’s been trying to have kids. Miscarriage after miscarriage. She kept saying God was punishing her. So I asked, ‘For what?’ And she told me.”
Of course, Jenna thought it was punishment.
Of course, my mother hunted down proof.
I felt like the floor had tilted.
“We were wrong too.”
“You let me choose you over my parents,” I said to my husband, “without giving me all the facts.”
He flinched. “I didn’t let you—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “You did. You took away my choice.”
My mom’s voice softened. “We were wrong, too. For cutting you off. For not reaching out. We thought we were protecting you, but we were protecting our image. I’m sorry.”
“I need you to leave.”
I didn’t have space in my head for her apology yet.
I put the papers on the table. My hands were steady.
“I need you to leave,” I said to my husband.
His chin trembled. “Where am I supposed to go?”
He sobbed.
I laughed once, sharp.
“That’s what I had to figure out at 17,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Don’t do this,” he said. “We have a life. A child. Please.”
“I had a right to know who I was choosing. You lied on day one. Everything after grew out of that lie.”
I went to our bedroom and pulled out a suitcase.
That time, I wasn’t a scared teenager.
