I typed: “Come to a family reunion dinner Sunday at 7 p.m. All the kids will be there. Wear your best suit. I’ll send the address.”
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth. “Emma, what are you doing?”
“Setting something straight.”
He replied almost instantly. “Dear, thank you for this second chance. I can’t wait to become a family again.”
Dear. Like she was an acquaintance, not the woman he left holding ten lives together.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, pulled back to a church basement ten years earlier.
I was fifteen, legs sticking to a metal folding chair. My younger brothers and sisters swung their feet and whispered. Dad stood in front of us with a Bible in his hand like he was about to preach.
Mom sat off to the side, hugely pregnant, ankles swollen, tissue crushed in her fist.
“Kids,” he said gently, “God is calling me elsewhere.”
Noah, only ten, frowned. “Like another church?”
Dad gave him a soft, practiced smile. “Something like that.”
He talked about “obedience” and “a new season.” He never said, “I’m leaving your mother.” He didn’t mention the twenty-two-year-old soprano. He didn’t mention the suitcase already in his trunk.