admitting I had already lied. One month passed. Then a year. Then five. Every year made admitting it harder.”
“So you kept lying for fifty-six years.”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t protecting me.”
He lowered his head.
“No.”
“You were protecting yourself.”
“Yes.”
That single word contained more truth than anything he had told me in half a century.
I looked at James’s paper rose again.
“You came to my parents’ funerals.”
Adrian nodded.
“You mailed Christmas cards.”
“Yes.”
“You let me thank you all those years.”
His shoulders sagged.
Then he
