The moment he truly came to understand me, though, was at a banquet during Cohen’s study abroad years.
At that banquet, Cohen had brought me along, and we had met briefly. They were classmates.
“So back then, you never told me you knew my father? You never told me I didn’t have to live as an outsider under someone else’s roof at the Whitmore home?”
My voice trembled, unraveling as I spoke, the dam of emotions finally breaking.
Cyrus steadied me, his presence a quiet anchor as I shook, feeling as if I might collapse at any moment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Your father thought it best not to disrupt your life. He truly believed you were happy, living well with the Whitmore family.”
Tears fell without sound, tracing the contours of my face.
Back then, I had been well, hadn’t I?
At least before Cohen and I crossed that line, everything had been fine.
