I remember it the way you keep a scar: as a fact, as a map of where the wound was, as a promise not to reach into that same fire again.

A single lie can burn a house down in one night.

The truth, when it finally comes, does not rebuild the house for you.

It only clears the ground and hands you the tools.

What you build after that — slowly, on Tuesday mornings, one hauled box and one fixed hinge and one held umbrella at a time — is the only part that was ever really up to you.