She waited.
Noah asked:
“Why did you lie?”
No easing into it.
Ten-year-olds become twelve-year-olds.
Diane cried.
“Because I was scared.”
He frowned.
“Of Dad?”
“At first, no.”
She took a breath.
“I was scared your mom would be angry at me.”
Noah looked at me.
Then back.
“So you let her think I was dead?”
Diane broke.
“I didn’t know whether you were alive every day.”
“But you knew I left with Dad.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
She whispered:
“Because I was a coward.”
Noah stared.
Then asked:
“Did you love me?”
Diane looked devastated.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you help Mom find me?”
That was the question.
Not whether Diane loved him.
She did.
Love had never been the missing ingredient.
Courage was.
Diane looked at him.
“I loved you.”
She said.
“But when loving you required me to admit I’d done something terrible, I chose myself.”
