I looked at my husband.
“I was young and selfish.”
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.
He didn’t. He just began to cry.
“Before the accident,” he said, voice cracking, “it was… it was stupid. I was stupid. Jenna and I… it was a few months, that’s all.”
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“A few months,” I repeated.
He swallowed.
“I thought I loved you both,” he said miserably. “I know how that sounds. I was young and selfish.”
“So the night of the accident, you were driving home from her.”
He nodded, eyes squeezed shut.
“I was leaving her place when I hit the ice. Spun out. Woke up in the hospital.”
“And the grandparents’ story?” I asked.
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“I was scared.”
“I panicked. I knew you. I knew if you thought I’d done nothing wrong, you’d stay. You’d fight for me. And if you knew the truth…”
“I might have left,” I finished.
He nodded.
“So you lied,” I said. “You let me believe you were an innocent victim. You let me destroy my life for you based on a lie.”
“She looked awful.”
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“I was scared. Then time passed, and it felt too late. Every year, it became harder to tell you. I hated myself, but I couldn’t risk losing you.”
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