“Do you hate me?” she asks softly before shaking her head and refusing to meet my eyes. “Of course you do. I hate me a little bit. I have for years.”

I consider this, dropping both sets of wings and flipping the lid of my suitcase over, zipping it closed. “No. I don’t hate you. But”—I hold up a hand in warning—“I don’t know how to feel right now. It’s very jumbled.” I gesture around my head. “And I don’t feel like I can properly sort it out here. I was leaving next week anyway,” I remind her.

Until yesterday morning, I was heading west to work at a Bible camp. I’ve sent my regrets via email and am trying not to feel guilty and especially irresponsible about it. I just can’t imagine sitting around a fire, singing about Jesus’s unerring love at a time like this. He’s still who he is, but I’m … not sure who I am.

“Your father is moving out,” she says.

I sink down beside her. “What you meant to say is he’s leaving us,” I insist. “And he’s not my father, so…” I shrug.

That’s one of the things that hasn’t sunk in yet. My dad is not my dad. Not really. My real dad? Is dead. His name was Andrew McArthur, and he died at twenty years old. I can say it. In my head, out loud, in a text to Vada … but none of it feels real yet. It’s not sticking. I don’t think it’s possible to reconfigure a lifetime of definites in two days. I wonder, idly, if it will take as long to undo the knowing as it took to know in the first place.

“He’s been your father for nearly eighteen years.”

“He’s been your husband for that long, too,” I say, shaking myself free of my thoughts. “If he can walk away from you, there’s no reason for him to stick around for me.”

“He feels terrible. He’s…” She pauses, and I wait. She changes direction. “Declan is a good man, Meg. He’s sacrificed a lot over the years, for both of us. But I need to set him free now. He deserves that much.”

I don’t believe that. He took off right after my mom’s confession yesterday afternoon and hasn’t been back. It’s clear they planned to tell me together—their secret was only a secret to me, after all—but he’s letting her face the fallout on her own. I don’t say anything. I doubt she’s fooled by my silence, but it doesn’t hurt to not confirm it.