Page 40 of The Weight of Her Silence
That night, Lila waited until the house was still. She pulled out the letters.
Ava’s was the longest.
She started with memories—baby shoes, lullabies, scraped knees, piano recitals. Then moved on to truths. The kind mothers only write when they don’t know how much longer they have to speak them aloud.
She wrote about strength.
About forgiveness.
About finding light even when the world felt dark.
She wrote the words I’m sorry at least five times.
Then crossed them out. And instead wrote I love you again and again. She was on her third envelope when the front door opened softly.
Nate.
She didn’t call out. She simply kept writing. Because she didn’t know which version of him would walk in tonight.
And part of her wasn’t ready to find out.
The next morning, Ava woke early. The house was still. Too still. She padded downstairs in her socks, hugging herself against the chill. Her mother wasn’t in the kitchen. The lights were off.
No scent of coffee.
No soft hum of the kettle.
She wandered to the hallway, then paused.
Voices.
Low. Urgent.
She stepped closer to the office door. It was slightly ajar. Her father’s voice filtered through first.
“No, Camille. I told you not to call this early—”
Ava’s breath caught.
She edged closer, barely breathing.
A woman’s voice on the phone, tinny and distant, but unmistakably familiar in tone.
Intimate.
Possessive.
She couldn’t make out the words, only the rhythm of them. Soft, pleading, followed by her father’s sharp, whispered response.
“Don’t say things like that. Not now.”
Pause.
“I told you, I’d come by later. I can’t talk right now.”
Silence.
Ava’s heart pounded. She took a step back, floorboard creaking.
