“I didn’t…” The way her voice trails off, it makes it so hard to believe her—but I still want to. I want to believe she didn’t do this.

She didn’t cheat on my dad. She didn’t.

I believe it. I do. I want to be on her side.

My dad breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling, tears dripping. And then he asks, “Is she even my daughter?”

My throat swells closed. She didn’t cheat on my dad. He has it all wrong.

Maybe I just really want her to confide in me. To tell me the truth. This force inside pushes me, and I round the corner. “Mom?” I sound small.

As I stare between my mom and dad, their rage and hurt and distress start to cage behind an opaque screen, one that bars me from entry.

I blink, wetness sopping my lashes.

I hate that they won’t show me anything real right now—that I have to spy in order to see it.

My mom straightens up and rubs her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Go upstairs, honey.” Her voice cracks.

“Who’s my father?” I ask.

“Rob Moore is your father, and he’s Ellie’s too,” she says adamantly. “It’s not what you think—”

“I’m leaving,” my father says, his tears dried up. Another glare plastered on his face.

He hardly acknowledges me.

He passes me to reach the doorway, and our bodies seem to lean away from each other, like pressing the wrong side of two magnets together, unable to near.

He has a clear aversion to me, and now I think I know why. He believes I’m not his child, even when I really am.

I listen to his footsteps all the way to the living room. Not long after, the door bangs closed, and my mom turns her back on me, beginning to clean a few dirtied glasses in the sink. She can’t just act like nothing happened.

“Mom!” I shout.

“I’m done talking…” Her arms shake like mine, and maybe a year ago, I would’ve stayed quiet and just gathered these bare details and created my own horrific conclusion. I don’t want to live with this half-picture anymore. I don’t want to see through clouds, stained glass and opaque screens. I want transparency for my own life, and only she can give that to me.

“I’m not done.” My voice is softer than I intend. She doesn’t turn around. I take a deep, strong inhale. “Mom,” I choke, “I’m not done.”

She slowly spins around, her hand fisting a dishtowel, eyes bloodshot. She waits for me to speak this time.

I lick my lips and I ask, “Do I have a brother?” She lied about him. I’m not sure if I can trust her, and I’m not sure if I should love her—but I do love her, and I do still trust her. That can’t vanish that quickly.

But right now, I resent her. For the first time, I truly do. And I hate it.