“Bathroom,” I lied, keeping my voice even.
“I’ll come with you.”
As we passed the last pew, the woman rose.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Julia?” she said — too loud.
Heads turned. Someone actually stopped mid-hug.
Gina’s hand left mine. “How does she know your name?”
The woman flinched, then lowered her voice.
“Please. I’m sorry. It’s… hospice.”
And that one word snapped the air in half.
Gina’s hand left mine.
**
“Mom? Are you all right?” Gina asked, leaning against my shoulder.
“I’m fine, honey,” I told her.
It wasn’t a lie. I didn’t feel broken or weepy. I just felt… hollow. Five years of silence had already done the grieving for me.
That was the thing about betrayal — it didn’t end when the divorce papers were signed. It stayed, it settled… and then it hardened into something too quiet to name.
**
I just felt… hollow.
