“I remember.”
Then Ethan became quiet.
“I think I spent years being mad that she died.”
“I know.”
“You did?”
“You were nineteen.”
“You stopped coming to the store.”
“You stopped talking about her.”
“You went away to college and barely came home.”
“I thought you were angry at me.”
He stared.
“I was.”
“Why?”
“You kept working.”
“Mom died and the stores opened Monday morning.”
That hurt.
I remembered.
Mary died Friday.
I opened one location Monday.
Not personally.
But operations continued.
Ethan had interpreted business continuity as indifference.
I whispered.
“I didn’t know how to stop.”
He looked at me.
“I know now.”
Silence.
Then he said.
“I think I decided the business mattered more to you than us.”
“It never did.”
“I know.”
“But you never told me that either.”
There it was.
Another cost of privacy.
I nodded.
“You’re right.”
He smiled sadly.
“So we both messed up.”
