I didn’t go back inside and explode.
Not yet.
Because Lily and Maya had already been through enough.
They had lost their mother.
They were still learning how to sleep through the night without waking up afraid.
They didn’t deserve more chaos.
So I did the hardest thing.
I acted normal.
I drove around the block.
I picked up pizza for dinner, because pizza makes kids feel like the world is still friendly.
Then I walked back in, smiling.
“Hey, I’m home,” I said.
Jenna rushed over, kissed me, and asked about my day.
Her perfume smelled sweet.
Her words sounded warm.
And I felt like I was talking to a stranger.
That night, after the girls were asleep, I sat at the table and forced my voice to stay calm.
“Jenna,” I said, “maybe you’re right.”
She tilted her head.
“About what?”
“About the girls,” I said. “Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe we should find another solution.”
Her eyes lit up.
She tried to hide it, but she couldn’t.
She leaned forward like she was hearing the best news of her life.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “That’s the mature choice.”
I nodded slowly.
“And maybe we shouldn’t wait on the wedding,” I added. “Maybe we should move forward quickly. Small ceremony. Soon.”
Her excitement grew.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Let’s do it.”
She started talking about venues and flowers before I even finished my sentence.
And while she planned, I made my own calls.
Quiet calls.
Practical calls.
The kind of calls you make when you are protecting children.
