My mom never sugarcoated anything. When my dad passed away in a hospital room when I was twelve, she sat me and my younger brother at the kitchen table and said simply, “Your father was a good dad. But he was a terrible husband.” She did not let us go to the funeral. She wanted our last memories of him to remain the man who built birdhouses and smiled while we hammered crooked nails, not a box in the ground. After that, life moved forward unevenly. She worked more and laughed less, never speaking badly of him yet never softening the truth either.

Growing up, I carried a split loyalty I did not know how to name. I loved the dad who taught me to ride a bike and showed up to school plays, but every time I missed him a flicker of guilt followed. Was I betraying my mom by still loving him? We never visited his grave. Years passed. I told myself remembering him at home was enough, but the real reason was fear—fear that bitterness or adult pain waited at the stone and would crack the love I still held.