She admitted the affa:ir. It had lasted six months. Darla had walked in on them and fired her.

Darla hadn’t told her husband about the cancer because she no longer trusted him. She gave the future to me, not him. She wanted to protect her children’s memories of their father.

I made my decision that day.

I would never tell the children what their father had done. They had already lost enough.

On Lily’s tenth birthday, I opened the box marked for her. Inside was a journal.

“My darling Lily,” Darla had written. “Write your dreams here. I’ll always be cheering you on.”

Lily held it close and cried. So did I.

My daughter left behind more than gifts.

She left me the weight of the truth—and the responsibility to carry it.