“Margot. Yeah, they’re married now.” I slow down until Ryan and I are walking beside each other again, and he goes on, “The day he told me the truth, I asked him why he couldn’t have just stayed with my mom. They didn’t hate each other. They didn’t fight. They could have gone on as they were. He told me you shouldn’t make a life with someone just because you could.”

I breathe out a quiet sigh. “How did your mom take it?”

“She tried to put on a brave face but most times she just crumbled. She leaned on my sister and me for support for a long time, especially in the beginning. Now that so much time has passed, I think she regrets how much she depended on us.”

I nod my head, unsure of where to go from here. “How’s your mom now?”

“She’s better. She was on antidepressants for a few years but she’s not anymore.”

Ryan and I step aside as a woman passes with a stroller before we start walking again. “Anyways, she’s been dating this guy, Joel, for a few months. He seems nice enough and she looks happy.”

“That’s good,” I say hesitantly. “The beginning of a relationship is always exciting.”

Ryan forces a smile and it’s hard for me to return it.

“Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?” I ask a few seconds later. “I would have been there for you.”

He lets out an ironic, gray kind of laugh. “I did try to tell you. You remember the day you finally answered one of my phone calls?”

I slow down my pace until I stop walking altogether. Ryan does the same and turns around to face me like it takes all the energy in the world. The months after our breakup still seem cloudy but I remember that day. It’s branded deep inside my memory and never healed right. Ryan called me every day for a month after we split up, sometimes more than once, and I never answered. But that day, I did.

“That was the day of my dad’s funeral,” I tell him.

His eyes go blank as he stares back at me. “What are you talking about?”

“He passed away three days earlier and when you called, the funeral had just ended.”

Ryan is immobile, at a loss and maybe a little in denial. I should have eased into it more. The thing is, there will never be a right way to talk about my dad being gone. It still makes me sick and it comes out awkward, and ten years later, I have yet to process it.

“What happened?” he asks.

I take a breath but it doesn’t help. “He was hit by an elderly driver.”

“He was in a car accident?”