Three months passed. No sign of the skirt. No mention. Just silence.
Then, one afternoon, while I was prepping lemon bars for a wedding order, Luke walked into the kitchen. His eyes darted nervously, his shoulders tight.
“Mom?” he said softly. “I need to tell you something. It’s about the skirt.”
I set down the icing spatula.
“I know Dad bought it,” he began. “When we went to the mall to get my soccer shoes, he told me to wait outside. He said he needed to grab something.”
I felt my stomach twist.
“There was this one day,” Luke continued, “I skipped a couple classes. I came home early to grab my skateboard… but I heard voices upstairs. I thought it was you and Dad.”
He paused, swallowing hard.
“But you’re never home at that time. I panicked. Hid under your bed.”
My heart ached for him.
“She laughed, Mom. It wasn’t you. I saw her legs. She was wearing the skirt.”
I stood frozen, the room spinning in slow motion.
Then I reached out and pulled him into my arms.
No child should ever carry a secret like that.
