Page 110 of Faultlines

She glances up when my knuckles tap lightly against the doorframe.

“Hey, can I come in?”

She nods, and I cross the room to sit beside her. I take a slow breath.

“I think we need to talk.”

The color drains from her face. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why do you sound so funny?”

Because my heart is breaking. Because I’m about to shatter part of the world you thought was permanent.

I give her a reassuring hug. “Your dad and I are going through something difficult right now.”

She looks down, picking at a spot on the rumpled duvet. “Duh, we aren’t living at home.”

“If I could keep this from hurting you, I would.”

She twists the sleeve of her shirt, a nervous habit, the fabric stretching and then snapping back. “Is this about why we’re staying here?”

“Partly.”

Then, finally, she asks the question she’s clearly been carrying, her words soft but weighted. “Are you getting divorced?”

“I don’t know. Your dad and I have decided to live separately right now. I know this is painful and confusing, and you have a lot of questions. What I need you to know is that none of this is because of you. We both love you very much, and we will always be your parents.”

“What happened?”

“A lot of it is just between your dad and me. You might hear people talking, and I don’t want you getting hurt by gossip. Please know that what’s happening is our problem, not yours to fix. He’s still your dad, he loves you, and you never have to choose between us.”

She looks away, her gaze fixed beyond my shoulder. The silence is thick, punctuated only by the click of the heating unit. A tear slips down her cheek.

“You should’ve told me sooner.”

I absorb her words, feeling a dull ache for having shut her out. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve been struggling with how to tell you.”

She shrugs, and I pull her into my arms. She collapses against me, small and vulnerable, looking every bit her age. The soft scent of strawberry shampoo fills my lungs.

“What’s going to happen now?” she asks, voice muffled against my shoulder.

“I wish I knew.”

“How long will we stay here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will I still see Dad?”

I pull back, hands resting gently on her shoulders. “Of course, sweetheart. Whenever you want.”

She nods, eyes still a little red, then asks, “Do you think we’ll ever be a normal family again?”

“I think we’ll find a new normal.”

When I pull into the middle school parking lot, every instinct tells me to turn the car around. But the play opens in a week, and nearly thirty students are counting on me.