Confronting Sara
I lay awake that night. At 2 AM, Sara slept soundly beside me. I rose, went to the living room, retrieved the photo of the cologne box from my phone, switched on the light. I woke her. Rubbing her eyes, sleepily asking what was wrong, I thrust the phone screen close. "Tell me. What is this, Sara?" Sleep vanished. Her eyes widened, staring at the image, face draining of color. Her lips trembled, words failing her.
Sara's Tears
"Luke... I..." Sara's voice shook uncontrollably. Tears spilled without warning, large drops soaking the duvet. "It's not what you think..." She choked out, fingers clutching my pajama sleeve like a lifeline. "Truly! There are... things... I can't tell you now. I promised... Please, believe me!" Her shoulders heaved with sobs, curling into herself, radiating utter helplessness and fear. But what things? Promised whom? Why the secrecy? Her tears were scalding, freezing my heart.
The Drunken Scene
Weeks later, we attended Father's Veterans Association annual cookout. He was clearly drunk, downing whiskey. Normally a stoic drinker, this was unlike him. As the evening wound down, that complex stare fixed on Sara again. She shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly, Father slammed his glass down. Staggering up, he pointed a wavering finger towards Sara, words slurred: "Luke! You... you boy... never shoulda married 'er!" Silence crashed down.
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