My son was there at that moment, guiding Frank to a chair. People were whispering. People were staring. But I stood there, frozen, while Frank’s words echoed in my head.
Things that are not relationships.
Lies that do not stem from wanting someone else.
What does this mean? The answer came a few days later.
Frank’s words echoed in my head.
The house was too quiet that evening.
I sat down at the kitchen table, the very same one where I had once spread out hotel receipts as if they were proof. I remembered his face that evening, closed off, stubborn. Almost relieved that the secret was finally out, even if the truth wasn’t.
What if Frank was telling the truth?
What if these hotel rooms weren’t used to hide someone else, but to hide himself?
I sat there for hours, turning the question over in my head.
I remembered his face that night.
***
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