By then, the secrecy had become unbearable. Every evening stretched tight with suspicion, every morning began with unspoken questions. We were a family fraying at the seams, unraveling thread by thread, while our daughter clutched her secret tighter, as if the entire weight of it might collapse if revealed too early.
The days blurred into brittle silences and sudden bursts of shouting. Martin drafted speeches in his head, rehearsing the words he would unleash when he finally stood before the man. I watched him mutter over dishes, when out of the bathroom, or pacing the hall. His fury was a storm begging for release.