Page 44 of Letting Go

Oh God. He’s trying to fix it.

Of course he is. He’s a judge. He thinks everything has a solution. A process. Mediation. Repair. Redemption.

And maybe if it had been some stranger. A one-time mistake. A faceless, nameless body.

But it wasn’t.

“It was my sister,” I blurt, too loud, too fast. The words rip out of me like they’ve been clawing at my throat all morning. “My nineteen-year-old sister.”

Silence. Real silence this time. Heavy and dense and humiliating.

His face goes still. Colour drains from his cheeks. “What?” he says, barely a whisper.

“I walked in. Our bed. Him and her.” My voice cracks. “I don’t even know if I was more shocked or impressed by the choreography of betrayal. He ruined two relationships in one night. Efficient, really.”

He says nothing. Just stares. Like I’ve grown horns. Or like he’s watching a building fall that he designed himself.

“I’m sorry,” I add, almost out of habit. My voice is thick. “I didn’t mean to dump this all on you like this. I just… I couldn’t keep lying. Not to you.”

The silence stretches long enough to hurt. Like maybe I’ve just nuked whatever thread of closeness I had left with the only man in that family who ever treated me like I mattered.

Then- he exhales.

And it’s not angry or defensive or dismissive. It’s… pained. Guttural. The sound of something cracking clean down the middle.

His hands, those neat, elegant hands that used to sign court orders and hand me second servings at Thanksgiving, curl into loose fists on the white tablecloth. His brow furrows- not with confusion anymore, but fury. Not at me. At him.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, low and cold. “I knew he was reckless. But this…” He stops. Shakes his head like he can’t even find words heavy enough. “Your sister?”

I nod once, and just like that, the floodgates open. The kind of crying that’s ugly and unstoppable. I cover my face with one hand like that’ll somehow make it less embarrassing. It doesn’t.

But then I feel it. His hand-warm, steady-on top of mine.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. No. Don’t you dare be ashamed.”

I glance up, and he’s pissed. His face is tight, jaw clenched, that same look he used to get when reading over sentencing reports in his chambers. Like he’s about to deliver a verdict.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he says, voice firm, no hesitation. “None of it. And you sure as hell don’t owe him your silence.”

“I didn’t know if I should tell you,” I whisper, my voice wet and broken. “I thought it would ruin things between us.”

“Ruin what?” he snaps, eyes sharp. “My blind loyalty to a son who’s never once earned it? No. You’re the one who’s shown up. Every damn time. You were the one I was proud of.”

I lose it then. Full sob. Not out of sadness, but relief. Because someone finally said it. Someone finally chose me.

He doesn’t rush me. Just sits there, guarding me with quiet outrage and paternal warmth. The father figure I always wished I had.

“Whatever you need from me, you have it,” he says. “You want a new attorney; I’ll get you one. You want him cut out of everything, I’ll see to it. You want him exiled to whatever cave bastards like him rot in- I’ll help pack his bag.”

And for the first time in days; hell, maybe weeks; I let out a breath that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to kill me from the inside.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He squeezes my hand once. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. Not anymore.”

Chapter 17

It’s as if the universe can’t let me have one clean breath. One single afternoon where I don’t feel I’m starring in the worst kind of reality TV.

---