Posted by: “Excuse me?” my mom said, her voice trembling.
“I didn’t—she doesn’t—” My dad stammered, his usual confidence crumbling like shattered glass. “This is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” I shot back, my hands shaking, but I didn’t care. “You’ve been sneaking around for weeks. I saw the text, Dad. Don’t lie.”
My grandparents exchanged stunned glances, clearly unprepared for this kind of confrontation at the dinner table. My mom’s face turned pale, her hand gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
“What text?” she whispered, turning slowly to face him. “What text?”
He faltered again, but it was too late. The guilt was written plainly across his face. Mom pushed her chair back, the screech of wood on tile cutting through the tense silence.
“Is this true?” she demanded, her voice trembling but rising. “Are you seeing someone else?”
“Beth, please,” my dad began, raising his hands in an attempt to calm her. But she cut him off.
“Answer me!” she shouted, her voice breaking.
The silence that followed was deafening. My dad’s eyes darted around the room as though searching for an escape, but there was none. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his head into his hands.
“It’s not what you think,” he muttered finally, his voice barely audible.
“What I think?” Mom’s voice cracked as tears began to stream down her cheeks. “So there is something to think about?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he admitted, his tone hollow. “It just… happened.”
Mom’s shoulders trembled as she turned away, her grief palpable. My grandparents tried to intervene, their words soft and pleading, but it was useless—like trying to extinguish a wildfire with a glass of water. My dad reached out to touch her arm, but she recoiled as if his hand burned.
“I need to leave,” she choked out, barely getting the words out through her tears. “I need time to think.”
She grabbed her coat and rushed to the door, slamming it behind her as she disappeared into the night. I sat frozen in my chair, my chest heaving as my heart raced. I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing by speaking up, but the air felt heavier, the truth hanging between us like an uninvited guest.
My dad slumped in his chair, seeming smaller and more defeated than I’d ever seen him.
“You had no right,” he said finally, his voice barely a whisper, the words carrying both anger and pain.
I didn’t reply. Maybe I didn’t have the right. But as I stared at the empty space where my mom had been, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the truth—no matter how devastating—needed to come out.