“Noah and I were together for almost a year,” I continued. “We kept it quiet because we wanted to be sure it was real before both families got involved. Then I found out I was pregnant. Noah was scared at first, but happy. He said he wanted to tell everyone properly.”
My voice trembled.
“He died three days later.”
The words hung between us.
I had said them before, to myself, in the dark. To doctors. To forms that asked for father’s information. To Leo when he was finally old enough to ask why his dad wasn’t at school plays.
But saying them on that porch felt different.
It felt like opening a locked room.
My father rubbed a hand over his face. “Noah came here,” he said.
I froze.
“What?”
“The night before the accident.” His voice was rough. “He came by. Said he needed to talk to me.”
My heart began to pound.
“You never told me that.”
“You were at work,” my mother said faintly.
My father looked at her, then back at me. “I thought he was just being dramatic. He was nervous. Kept saying it was important, that it involved you. I told him whatever it was could wait.”
A coldness moved through me.
“Noah told me he was coming here,” I said slowly. “He said after he talked to you, everything would be easier.”
My father closed his eyes.
