You used to say,
"On a good day, I only break his heart once."
That was before you learned to lie,
Back when you used to tell him the truth 'cause you never had the kind of relationship that allowed for secrets.
But now somehow a lie fits better.
Fits like a letter slipped through the slot of a locker,
Because the doctor told you if there was anything more they could do, they would do it.
He's not coming back.
And in the moment you knew it, you learned how to lie.
Because there are times when the cost of truth is so high that we in-debt our own hearts to heartbreak.
We make love into a currency that can't be cashed in because there's never been a bank that will give out a loan based on the collateral of hope.
They'll lend anyone enough rope to hang their family's future on a rope, then scheme some way to foreclose.
And everyone knows they have billions of dollars,
But no dads in their vault.
So you learned how to lie.
Because it's not his fault that he can't remember that your mom, his wife, had a life that ended two years ago.
So you forged a passport into his heart, trespassing into his past under the name of the last one to live there,
Because healthcare can't cover the misplaced memories of families whose secrets spill out like jewels from the over-sized holes in pants pockets that someone in the family has to wear.
And you tell me that every stitch is as valuable as every tear.
But pull a single string and the whole thing will unravel.
So you travel across borders under an assumed identity.
Where the broken branch of a family tree is built into a confessional,
And you listen to an apology meant for your mother.
Something about another woman on a night before a flight back home.
And you forgive him. Because that's what Mom would do.
You know because he says thank you which means Mom already did.
Hid this secret away like one of those stray cats you used to keep hidden in your room, hoping no one would ever know.
And you tell me, "I didn't mean to grow up.
"It was an accident."
And I know you never meant to be 42 years old, having to go through this.
Having to miss him at the same time you're with him.
Having him gone at the same time he's there.
Having to stare at the first word you said and now not being able to say it.
And you can't remember despite your best efforts how or when the word "daddy" became "dad".
How two extra letters had and have all the safety of weightlessness.
We both know this.
Because you used to be my babysitter.
And when the nightmares would shake me awake, you'd make and take the time to tell me,
"Daddy's gonna be home soon."
Because to us that word meant security.
Or bravery.
Or, "Dear Mr. Boogie Man,you better not be under my bed or in my closet because my daddy's gonna deposit his foot so far up your ass, the interest alone will be enough for him to retire early.
We grew up in confessionals.
And were taught that a lie under any circumstance is wrong.
But how can the sacrifice of belong to anything less than the virtue it takes to break one's own heart to ease another's descent into madness?
How can anyone dismiss love as if it wasn't the only reason to risk everything, knowing full well you can't bring them back?
That there are no footprints or trails to track to find them, and all you can do is be there,
And you are.
Despite your own husband, you wear your mother's wedding ring.
Because it was something he asked about when he saw you without it.
That was a bad day.
When you saw the way he couldn't understand how your hand held someone else's promise of forever.
And that's it's never you he will remember; it's her.
And the only time you're sure he still loves you is when he asks:
"How's your baby?"
And may very well be that you break your own heart when you answer:
"She's good, sweetie. She's happy."
