The air in your childhood living room is heavy.

Dust particles dance in the sunbeams, slipping through the old curtains, but nothing can distract from the weight in the room.

Your husband, Lando, stands directly behind you.

Silent, but present.

“You don’t know anything about your mother!” Your father says, his voice sharp and firm.

Your throat tightens, your fists clench at your sides.

“She was never here!” You say, your voice trembling as tears well up in your eyes.

“She was a beautiful, crazy, fragile, wonderful woman!” Your father snaps back.

“She deserted us!” You throw at him.

“She loved us!” He insists.

“That was love?” You ask, disbelieving. Your voice cracks on the last word.

“Yes! Yes, it was!” He barks.

You step forward, your eyes burning into his.

“Okay, then why did she leave?!” Your voice is steady now, firm.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” He snaps again.

You feel your heart racing, your chest tightening.

A thousand suppressed memories crawl from the shadows of your past.

“If she loved us so much, why wasn't she here?” Your voice hits like a thunder.

“She tried! She always tried!!” He yells.

Lando tenses beside you.

You don’t need to look at him. You feel it. You can sense the tension radiating off him like a slow burning fire.

His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched. He hates this.

Hates seeing you so hurt. And he can’t stand anyone raising their voice at you.

“She wasn’t here!!” You yell. “She was never f***ing here!! She left!!”

You feel Lando’s hand on the small of your back. That grounding touch. His silent signal.

I’m here. Breathe.

But it’s too late. The dam has broken.

“I was nine!” Your voice cracks. “Nine. And taking care of you. Taking care of all of us!”

Your father’s eyes widen, but you don’t stop.

“I was in 4th grade dragging your a**, Passed out, in from the yard, so you wouldn't freeze to d**th! Staying up all night with Ian when he had chicken pox! I washed Carl's shity diapers! I picked lice out of Liam's hair! And I was here when Debby gor her first period! Not Monica. Me!”

Your whole body is shaking now. The pain in your chest is decades old, and it’s been silent for far too long.

Your father’s expression breaks. The pride fades and guilt burns across his face.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

Lando gently turns you toward him. His hands frame your face, his thumbs softly wiping away your tears.

“It’s okay. Calm down, babe.” He says quietly, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re not that little girl anymore. You’re my wife. I think it’s time to go now.”

Your father looks small.

He has nothing left to say.

Because the truth has finally been spoken.

Not by your mother.

Not by him.

But by the little girl who had to grow up far too soon.

And by the woman she became.