There it was. The beginning of the explanation. The revision. The version where he was stressed, lonely, confused, pressured, grieving, misunderstood.

I’d been hearing drafts of it in my head for a year. I had feared them.

Then I saw the folder in Kenneth’s hand, the formula on the floor, the stroller between Melinda’s palms, and Connor’s perfect suit reflected in the hospital tile — and I stopped being afraid of his story.

“No,” I said. “You don’t understand.”

Kenneth closed the folder. “Kirsten. Your meeting.”

I checked the clock. The staff meeting was in twelve minutes, and surgery would follow. The world had cracked open, and children’s hearts still needed repair.