Page 60 of The Weight of Her Silence
Ava stood up, arms crossed. “Don’t make this harder, Dad.”
“I won’t,” Nate said quickly. “I just want to help. Be useful.”
“You had years to be useful.”
Lila touched her daughter’s hand gently.
“Let him sit, sweetheart.”
Ava’s jaw clenched, but she backed away, curling into the opposite corner of the couch.
Nate lowered himself to the floor near Lila’s feet like a man begging to be near a fire he’d nearly extinguished. He looked up at her, unsure where to begin.
“I broke things,” he said, voice low.
Lila gave a tired smile. “You can’t fix them tonight.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But I want to show up. Every day. If you’ll let me.”
Lila didn’t answer immediately.
“Don’t promise me forever, Nate. Just... promise to be present.”
His throat worked as he nodded. “I will.”
Caleb finally spoke, quiet but firm. “Mom doesn’t need more lies.”
Nate’s eyes burned. “No more lies.”
Silence stretched again. This one different. Not forgiving—but not closing the door.
Lila leaned her head against the back cushion, closing her eyes.
And for a moment, with Ava curled beside her, Caleb flipping pages at her feet, and Nate sitting in his shame and longing—it almost felt like a family again.
A broken, hurting one. But still together.
Still trying.
Chapter 38
A Day That Feels Like Almost
It was one of those rare afternoons when the sun felt gentle instead of harsh, slipping through the gauzy curtains and resting like a soft hand across the living room. Lila was in her favorite chair—knitted throw draped over her legs, her body fragile but her presence calm.
Caleb sat cross-legged at her feet with a sketchpad, chewing the end of a pencil. He was drawing something he refused to show yet. Ava was nearby, flipping through a photo album she'd pulled from the back of the bookshelf, her fingers brushing dust from the edges of old memories.
Nate hovered—not too close, not too far. He brought water, warm blankets, a hot cup of herbal tea. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. But he watched everything.
And he ached with the weight of what he almost lost. Of what he might still lose.
"Do you remember this?" Ava asked, holding up a faded photograph.
Lila leaned forward to see, her smile immediate and wistful.
"That’s you, at the beach. You were five and absolutely convinced you could fly if you jumped from the dunes."
"I still think I could," Ava murmured, her voice tight.
