Not privacy. Fear.
Ben had turned one difficult truth into three years of deception because every month made telling me harder.
I left and stayed with my sister for four nights.
Ben didn’t chase me.
He texted once each morning.
I love you. I’m sorry. I’ll answer anything when you’re ready.
On the fifth day, I asked him for Lily’s number.
He called immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“Send it.”
He did.
I stared at the number for almost an hour before texting: “Hi, Lily. This is Claire. I think you know who I am.”
Her answer came quickly: “I do. I’m so sorry.”
We met two days later, just the two of us.
I expected it to be unbearable.
It wasn’t. It was strange.
Lily was 23, funny, nervous, and very clearly not responsible for her father’s choices.
The first thing she said was, “I told him to tell you.”
