Chapter 48
AMY
The kitchen light flickers softly, casting trembling halos over the table.
The air is heavy with simmered garlic, roast vegetables now cold, and the ghost of wine long drained.
I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, fighting the tremor in my chest. The tines of a fork clink against a plate: Libra’s slow, persistent chewing. She’s trying not to look at me.
Across from her, Darun sits ramrod straight despite his exhaustion.
His eyes flick toward me, then quickly away, like he’s guarding himself.
The shadow under his jaw is dark with stubble and unshed tears.
I see the way his lips press together after each smile he forces for Libra.
I smell the faint salt of tears on his cheek.
Libra chatters between bites. “Teacher gave me extra crayons today. She said I can draw planets! I’ll make a picture for Daddy.
” She beams low, unaware of the tension draped over us.
Darun reaches across, tucks a blond curl behind her ear.
His paw is gentle. “That’s amazing, kiddo,” he murmurs. His voice is thick.
I step forward, plate in hand, but I don’t sit. I feel miles of distance beneath my skin.
Libra tilts her head at me. “Mommy?” Her voice small. She watches me with bright eyes. I force a smile—but it feels cracked.
Darun says softly, “Libra, you want to show Mommy your drawing after dinner?” He tries to lift her mood, lift mine. I nod, swallowing hard. She lights up.
Then I step toward the sink, setting down the empty plates. The sound—stone on wood—makes both of their heads snap toward me.
“I need space,” I say, voice tight. The words hang. The scent of the kitchen—salt, grease, sorrow—fills my lungs.
He looks at me, so vulnerable: “Amy—please.” His voice cracks. “I’ll give you whatever you need. Just... please don’t shut me out completely.”
I freeze. The plea—so human, so raw—throws me off guard. His claws dig faint furrows in the wood of the table. His fingers tremble.
Tears threaten. My lower lip trembles. The room narrows around me; the glow of the stove, the hum of fridge, the distant city lights—I lean on the counter.
He stands. Libra watches him. He reaches out, voice shaking: “Please.”
I struggle for a breath, for strength. I want to tell him everything now. To heal everything. But betrayal is a cavern I can’t cross tonight. I turn away. The heat from the stove warms my back.
“It’s... I need to go,” I say softly.
He nods, heartbroken. “Okay,” he whispers.
I walk out. The hallway feels endless, the floorboards echo beneath my feet. I leave the kitchen lamp on. I leave him teaching our daughter to fold paper boats, the quiet creak of paper, the hush between them. His scaled cheeks glisten in that glow. I taste salt in the air, the memory of his touch.
I stop at the end of the hall, listen. Libra giggles softly when the little ship tips. He murmurs words I can’t hear. My chest twists. The betrayal, the secret, the lie—and yet the love that remains—tears me apart.
I slip down the darkness. I pray he doesn’t have to carry this alone. I hope the weight doesn’t break him. And in that quiet, I swear: I will return. I will not lose him or her in this. But tonight, I leave them to grief together.
I step into the night beyond the door, the world blurring as I try not to sob. But I do. Quiet tears spill. I hold onto the memory of his face, of her small hand, of home just beyond reach.