I stood outside his door, every nerve awake.
Another sound.
This one sharper.
Like someone trying to pull a word through a throat that had forgotten how.
My hand rose.
I knocked gently.
The sound stopped.
“Alan?”
Silence.
“Are you okay?”
Two taps from inside.
Yes.
I remained there.
“You don’t have to open the door.”
Nothing.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Still nothing.
“I just wanted you to know I’m here.”
I walked away.
In the kitchen, I stood at the sink in the dark.
My hands were shaking.
I knew what I had heard.
He was trying.
Not for me.
I prayed not for me.
Not because he thought I needed it.
But what if he believed the court did?
What if every promise I’d made had been erased by the fear that a judge might interpret silence incorrectly?
The next morning, I found a note beside my coffee.
DON’T TELL THEM.
I stared at it.
Alan sat at the table.
I knew exactly what he meant.
“About last night?”
Two taps.
“Okay.”
He watched me carefully.
“I won’t.”
Some tension left his shoulders.
I sat down.
“But Alan?”
He waited.
“You don’t owe anyone words.”
His eyes lowered.
“Not me. Not the judge. Not anybody.”
His fingers pressed together beneath the table.
“If you never say a word your whole life, it will not change what you are to me.”
His eyes rose.
I came dangerously close to saying son.
Again, I stopped.
I wish now that I hadn’t.
But maybe the restraint mattered.
Maybe he needed to choose the word before I did.
The morning of the hearing arrived cold and bright.
I had barely slept.
Alan had definitely not slept.
I made waffles.
He did not eat them.
I poured coffee and forgot to drink it.
At eight-fifteen, we stood by the front door.
