For those two days, we lived simply.
We cooked, walked, and sat in front of a small wood stove while the world outside continued without us. The distance allowed everything to settle enough for the real questions to surface.
On the third day, I finally asked one.
“Why did you not trust me with the truth?”
He sat across from me, holding a mug of coffee between his hands as if it anchored him to the moment.
“I trusted you with everything that mattered emotionally,” he said. “I did not trust the world that came with my title not to change what we had.”
“That is still a choice you made for both of us,” I replied.
He nodded slowly.
“Yes, and I was wrong to make it alone.”
That answer did not fix anything, but it removed the need to argue.
“I am still angry,” I said.
“I know,” he answered.
“And I still love you,” I added after a long pause.
His expression softened in a way that made the silence between us feel less fragile.
“I know that too,” he said quietly.
When we returned to the city, reality waited for us.
My mother’s life had shifted under the weight of public scrutiny, and when she called again, her voice no longer carried the sharp confidence I had grown up with.