Nora sensed it too. She moved more cautiously at home, footsteps softer, and tone gentler, as if soothing a wounded animal. Yet she never relented. Every time we demanded answers, she repeated the same refrain: “Please. Give me some time. If you knew now, it would ruin everything.”
The neighbors grew bolder with their questions. A woman at church leaned in after the service. “I hear Nora’s seeing someone,” she whispered. “Older. Is she… safe?” I forced a smile, lying through my teeth. Safe. The word stung, because safety wasn’t what haunted me—it was trust, unraveling thread by thread.