No one needed to.
I didn’t fire him. I didn’t threaten his career.
I simply stopped protecting him from the truth.
Then I left.
By the time Ethan and Vanessa returned home, a moving company had finished carrying my furniture into the house across the street.
I was standing at the gate in my flannel shirt again. My suit was upstairs. My old pickup was in the driveway.
Vanessa crossed the street first.
“You bought this?”
“Yes.”
Ethan looked devastated. “Dad, please. Come back. We were wrong.”
Vanessa swallowed hard. “I owe you an apology.”
I believed she was sorry.
But I also knew why the apology had arrived that night instead of the night she threw away my pie, or locked me outside, or called me useless.
“I’m not moving back,” I said.
Ethan’s eyes filled. “We can fix it.”
“No. You can change. That isn’t the same thing.”
His shoulders dropped.
“I’m not leaving to punish you,” I said. “I’m leaving because I finally believe I deserve better than what you allowed.”
Then little feet slapped against pavement.
Noah ran across the street in pajamas. “Grandpa! Are you going away?”
I crouched.