“Patrick, is she joking?”
Patrick’s face turned white, then red. He forced out a laugh that sounded painfully wrong. “Kids and their stories,” he said, shaking his head.
But Lily wasn’t backing down. “Yes, there is!
I saw her dress through the window when you left the door open last night. She was sitting on the floor. You told me not to tell Mom.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I stared at my husband, searching his face for some sign that this was a misunderstanding, some explanation that made sense. But his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. His hand trembled slightly as he set the knife down.
“Patrick,” I said slowly, “what is she talking about?”
He swallowed hard. “I—uh—Lily must have mistaken the mannequin. I brought one home from work.
It’s for—uh—a safety training project.”
I wanted to believe him, but something about his tone made my stomach twist. My brother frowned. “A mannequin?
Patrick’s jaw clenched. “It’s complicated. Let’s just eat, okay?
We can talk later.”
But there was no salvaging the mood. Everyone tried to continue, but the air was thick with discomfort. I could barely taste the food.
Patrick barely spoke. And Lily, confused by the tension, sat quietly with her hands in her lap. After dinner, I found him outside, standing by the barn in the cold November air, his breath rising in small clouds.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “Now.”Continue reading…
