I made my statement to the reporter because she caught me halfway to my car and because Dad would have hated me letting someone else control the story.
“My father protected his family until his last breath,” I told her. “Today was about honoring his life. If the truth embarrassed anyone, that speaks to their choices, not mine.”
She asked about Grant.
“Soon-to-be ex-husband,” I said.
Then I got in the car and drove home.
The house sat in the afternoon light looking exactly the same as it had that morning—Spanish tile roof, climbing roses, blue shutters Dad had paid to repaint when Grant insisted the old color was “too East Coast.” I parked in the circular drive and just sat for a moment with my hands on the wheel.
This had been my home for eleven years. My father bought it when Grant and I got married because, as he put it, “If I’m going to have grandchildren under a roof one day, I’d like that roof not to leak.” We never had the grandchildren, and the roof did not leak, but the marriage had apparently been taking on water for quite some time.
Inside, the house was silent.