Lauren did not sit.
Neither did he.
He kept speaking from the spot near the door.
“My wife died three years ago.”
There it was.
One of Lauren’s made-up stories, accidentally true.
“She had cancer. Fast. Ugly. The kind that takes over the room even before it takes the person.”
The television murmured from the living room.
Denise slept on.
Ethan’s voice stayed low.
“I own a software services firm. Small compared to the giants, but stable. We build systems for shipping companies, medical suppliers, county offices, places like that.”
Lauren said nothing.
He went on.
“For a long time I told myself I was doing what fathers are supposed to do. Work. Provide. Keep the mortgage paid. Keep the health insurance. Keep food in the fridge.”
His eyes dropped.
“But after my wife died, providing turned into hiding.”
That line landed in the room and stayed there.
