Page 8 of No Turning Back
I check my phone just before we pull into the driveway.
The last text from my husband still sits at the bottom of the thread:I would come back if I could. Love you. xx
I’d reached out. Broken my silence. Let my guard down.
And stupidly, I thought my“I need you”would be met with more than another excuse.
But it wasn’t.
It was just one more reminder that when it comes to choosing, Markus never seems to chooseme.
“Quinn,” my mom interrupts gently. “Let’s go.”
I nod, pocketing my phone, and step out of the backseat. She stands beside me as we watch people shuffle around, caterersunloading trays, guests milling in and out of the house, quiet murmurs floating through the air. There are too many cars lining the curb, too many strangers in what used to be my father’s sacred space.
I thread my arm through hers.
“You know Dad would hate this. All these people over at his place.”
She lets out a soft chuckle. “He really would.”
She starts to move, but I hold her back with a tug of my arm.
“I loved him, you know.” I say it without looking at her, eyes fixed on the front door. “Just because I’m not bawling doesn’t mean I didn’t love him.” My voice cracks on the last word. “He knew that, right?”
“Sweetie,” she says, turning to me and cupping my cheeks in her warm hands, “if anyone gets it, it’s your dad. Where do you think you got it from?”
I nod as she pulls me into her arms. I let myself sink into the safety of her hold, breathing deep, steadying against the sobs that threaten to spill over. The grief is there, sharp and real but I press it down for just a little longer.
After a few minutes, she pulls back and gently dries my cheeks with her thumb.
“Let’s get this over with,” she says, tone dry. “Before your dad has another coronary.”
I laugh at the dark humour, and follow her inside.
Inside, the house hums with movement. People mill about with plates of food and glasses of wine, balancing grief with small talk and awkward laughter.
In the corner, a cluster of Dad’s colleagues from the hospital are deep in animated conversation, trading stories about “good ol’ Dr. Barnes” like it’s a retirement party, not a wake. Nearby, a few nurses are dabbing at their eyes, some crying harder than Mom did.
Honestly, I’m surprised he only had one secret kid. All those statistics about surgeons being egotistical and more likely to cheat? Yeah, my dad fit that mould a little too well.
After the second time my dad cheated, I took sides. Her side. He tried but I couldn’t really spend any meaningful time with a man that convinced my mom to forgive him only to do it all over again.
Things were tense after that, to say the least. Frosty, even. Then Mom took him back. Only to cry all over again when she found out he was sleeping with a nurse. I don’t condone cheating, but I’ve come to understand one thing. There are two kinds of wives: the ones who say, “He’ll never do it again,” and the ones who make sure he doesn’t, by warning or by walking.
My mom did neither.
Eventually, I realized they were both the problem. And for the sake of my own sanity and my relationship with the only family I had, I learned to step back from the drama. Not because I didn’t care, but because I couldn’t live inside their storm anymore.
I don’t recognize most of the people here. A few faces look vaguely familiar, probably people Dad introduced to me over parties or waved at from the hospital parking lot. After making a round of the room, nodding and smiling like a politician in a borrowed suit, I lean close to Mom.
“Which one is she?” I murmur.
She talks from the corner of her mouth without turning her head. “I don’t see her.”
I shrug. “Maybe she just wanted to pay her respects and left.”
“Maybe,” Mom says, but there’s a tightness in her voice that tells me she doesn’t believe that either.
