“It always should have been.”
That Saturday, we told Poppy.
Together.
At the kitchen table.
The same table where I’d dumped the scrubs.
Nate did most of the talking.
I held her hand.
He told her he didn’t work at the hospital anymore.
He told her a little girl got very sick.
Because he was too tired to be careful.
He told her he’d been too ashamed to tell Mommy.
He didn’t tell her about the college fund.
Some things an eight-year-old doesn’t need to carry either.
Poppy listened without moving.
