And while she held me, I somehow felt every year of her life at once.

Then she said,

“Tell me everything.”

So that evening, I did.

At the kitchen table.

Always that kitchen table.

I told her about Carl’s diagnosis.

About why he left.

About the money.

The photographs.

The phone calls.

The box.

I told her the truth about Emily’s condition.

And that it came from Carl.

Lily listened without interrupting.

Finally, she said,

“He really thought leaving was protecting us.”

“Yes.”

“Because he was sick.”

“Yes.”

She stared at the table.

“That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I told her something I was still learning myself.

“His reason doesn’t make the decision right.”

She looked at me.

“He should have told you.”

“Yes.”

“He should have let you decide.”

“Yes.”

“But he still loved you.”

“Yes.”

“The love was real.”

“The love was real.”

She went quiet.

Then she admitted she had been angry at Carl her entire life.

Not furious.

Just quietly angry.

He had always been a missing piece.

An absence that somehow still took up space.

“I don’t know how to be angry at someone who was trying to protect me.”

I said,

“You can be angry at what someone did without deciding they are entirely bad.”

She thought about that.

Then asked,

“Are you going to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Because you still love him?”

I hesitated.

Because the answer was not simple.

“Because he deserves to know you’re okay.”

Lily nodded.

Then said,

“I’m coming.”

Dad contacted Carl.

He was living in a care facility about two hours away.

His condition had not progressed to the point that he was helpless, but managing it alone had become complicated enough that having support made sense.

Lily and I drove there together that Saturday.

During the drive, she asked about Emily.

Not how she died.

Who she was.

So I told her.

The climbing.