I sat on the floor and wrapped my arms around him.
“I know,” I whispered into his fur. “Me too.”
Nora stood in the doorway holding his leash.
My sister is two years older than me, a high school art teacher with red hair, blunt opinions, and a history of wanting to fight people who hurt me. She looked around the living room once and saw enough.
“I hate him,” she said.
“Efficient.”
“I can do more.”
“Maya says no shovels.”
“Maya ruins all my best plans.”
I laughed, then cried because laughter opened the door.
Nora sat beside me on the floor. Mason pressed his whole body into my lap.
“I feel humiliated,” I said.
Nora’s face changed. “You didn’t do anything humiliating.”
“He did it in our house.”
“That’s his shame.”
“With our neighbor.”
“Also his shame.”
“Under my blanket.”
Nora paused. “Okay, that part makes me want to commit a misdemeanor.”
I laughed again, harder this time, until crying took over. Nora held my hand through it, not trying to fix anything. That is the difference between comfort and control. Comfort sits beside pain. Control tries to redirect it before it becomes inconvenient.
Caleb did not know that difference.
Maybe he never had.
Over the next three days, his messages changed shape.