Then came Dad.
He stepped in beside her, face creased with that familiar no-nonsense concern that could make a person feel both fiercely loved and lightly scolded in a single glance. I turned to him, already reaching. No hesitation. He wasn't the most emotionally expressive man, never had been, but when his arms came around me, they were solid. Certain. Reassuring in a way that felt like the ground returning under my feet.
He didn't say much. Just rubbed a hand up and down my back once and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, like he used to when I had nightmares at age nine. And just like that, I let go. Of the house. Of the pain. Of Thomas. And I held onto the two people who had always loved me in the clearest, quietest way.
They were here. I wasn't alone anymore.
"Hi there, Ladybug," he murmured.
I laughed through the sting in my throat. "Come in, come in." I ushered them inside like I hadn't just fallen apart on the welcome mat.
Mom brushed her windblown hair out of her face and set her purse down carefully, like she didn't want to disturb the air in the room—or maybe me.
 "I spoke to Jeanine," she said gently. Her voice was soft but steady—the kind that held a thousand unsaid things. "She called right after we got back from the cruise. Told me you might need us."
That was all it took. My lip trembled, and my breath caught. There was no point trying to act strong. Not here. Not with her.
 "I do," I said, and the words cracked on the way out. "I really, really do."
The tears came before I could stop them—hot, sudden, and somehow heavier than any I'd cried before. I stumbled forward, and she caught me instantly, wrapping me up like she'd been waiting for this moment since the second I was born. Her arms felt like home. Like safety. Like something ancient and unconditional.
"I'm getting a divorce," I whispered, and even saying it felt like ripping something out of me.
She didn't flinch. Didn't tense. She just held me tighter, like she could protect me from the weight of the word by sheer will. No questions. No judgment. Just her—calm, warm, solid. A mother's love that didn't require explanations.
Behind us, I heard the scrape of Dad's shoe on the floor, followed by a very deliberate sigh.
 "Well," he said in his usual dry tone, "I never liked the bloke."
"Joseph," Mom said, half reprimanding, half smiling.
"What?" he replied, hands already in the air like he was under oath in a courtroom drama. "I'm just saying what we're all thinking. The man's got the emotional depth of a damp sponge. Cold, calculating, zero warmth—he hugs like he's submitting a tax return. No eye contact, minimal effort, and he always looks like he's expecting a receipt afterward."
He shook his head and gave an exaggerated shiver. "Honestly, hugging him was like trying to get affection from a fax machine. I've seen warmer embraces from airport security."
"Joseph," Mom warned again, though this time she was trying not to smile.
He waved her off. "I'm not being mean, I'm being accurate. The man's emotionally constipated. You ever seen him try to express empathy? It's like watching someone try to do algebra in the middle of a stroke."
He glanced back at me, voice softening just a little beneath the sarcasm. "You didn't need that, kid. You need someone who feels things. Who actually knows how to show up for you. Not... corporate Ken doll over there playing husband."
Dad let out a breath, one hand on his hip, the other still mid-rant. "God knows why you ever fell in love with him in the first place. You fell so hard, so openly for him" Dad continued, "and apparently he turned out to be... well, an emotionally lobotomized tax consultant in disguise."
I laughed through a sniffle, but it hurt. Because he wasn't wrong. I blinked fast. "I think some part of me's still that girl," I admitted. "The one who fell in love too fast and never figured out how to fall out."
He nodded, stepping forward to place a firm, fatherly hand on my shoulder.
"Then it's about time you let her grow up, sweetheart," he said.
Mom made a soft noise of agreement behind us, and for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel embarrassed about crying in front of them. Because they saw me.
 The girl I was. And the woman I was trying to become.
Dad pointed toward the kitchen.
 "I'll make tea. Unless you need something stronger. In which case, I've still got that awful limoncello your uncle gave me."
Mom rolled her eyes with a sigh of affection. "Joseph, now is not the time."
"It's always the time for limoncello," he muttered, already rummaging in the cabinets.
I looked at both of them—my mother, who never let go, and my father, who loved like a grumbling lighthouse: rough, steady, and always there whether you saw it or not. My heart hurt, but it also felt stitched together in a way it hadn't in months. Maybe years.
"I missed you both," I said softly, voice still raw.
Mom brushed my hair back behind my ear, her palm warm against my cheek. "We missed you too, baby."
"We're not going anywhere," Dad added from the kitchen, raising his voice over the clink of glasses. "Even if you keep marrying idiots."
I laughed through a tear that spilled anyway.
And in that small, cluttered kitchen with the hum of the kettle and the lemon-sweet sting of memory in the air, I let myself collapse. Not in defeat—but in relief. In safety. In something that felt like beginning again.
Maybe everything had fallen apart. But I wasn't alone in the rubble. Not anymore.

We sat around the kitchen table, a mismatched trio of mugs between us—tea steeping, steam curling like quiet prayers into the air. Mom and Dad sat across from me, elbow on the table, fingers drumming, waiting. Their eyes hadn't left my face since I started talking.
And I did talk.  About everything.
From the missed dinners to the cold silences, the gaslighting moments I brushed off, the party, the lies, the voice on the phone that still echoed in my head—Laura, purring like she owned a piece of my life.
When I finished, the room went very, very still. No one spoke for a beat. The kind of silence that buzzes in your bones.
Then Dad stood abruptly.I blinked. "Where are you going?"
He didn't answer at first—just picked up his phone from the counter and slipped his car keys into his coat pocket.
"Dad?"
Mom looked up from her tea, confused. "Joseph?"
"I'll be back soon," he said, already heading for the door. "Judy, stay here with our daughter."
"Dad, no," I said quickly, heart thudding. "Please. Don't."
He paused at the door, stepped back just long enough to lean in and kiss my forehead, warm and certain. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he said quietly. "There's something I need to take care of."
My stomach dropped. "Oh God." He didn't reply, just offered that maddeningly calm half-smile of his. The one that usually meant something explosive was on its way.
Then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded too final.
I turned to Mom, wide-eyed. She just sighed, sipping her tea, unfazed.
 "Well. I hope that son of a bitch has life insurance."