You used to say, on a good day I only break his heart once.
That was before you learned how to lie.
Back when you used to try to tell the truth.
Because you and him never had the kind of relationship that allowed for secrets.
And now somehow alive it's better.
It is like a letter slipped through the slot of a locker.
Because the doctor told you if there was anything more they could do, they would do it.
He's not coming back.
And in the moment you knew it, you learned how to lie.
Because there are times when the cost of truth is so high, we endure our own hearts to hearts break.
We make love into a currency that can't be cashed in, because there has never been a bank that will give out a loan based on the collateral of hope.
They'll lend anyone just enough rope to hang their family's future on a dream, then scheme somewhere to foreclose.
And everybody knows they've got billions of dollars, but no dads in their vault.
So you learnt how to lie.
Because it's not his fault that he can't remember, that your mom, his wife, had a life that ended two years ago.
So you … to passport into his heart, trespassing into his past and into the name into the last one to live there.
Because healthcare can't cover the misplaced memories of families, whose secrets spill out jewels through the oversized holes in pants pockets that someone in the family has to wear.
And you tell me that every stitch is as valuable as every tear.
But pull a single string and the whole thing will unravel.
So you travel across borders under an assumed identity, where the broken branch of a family is built into a confessional.
And you listen to an apology meant for your mother.
Something about another woman on a night before a flight back home.
And you forgive him.
Because that's what a mom would do.
You know, because he says thank you, which means mom already did.
Hit the secret away, like one of those strayed cats you used to keep hidden in your room, hoping no one would ever know.
And you tell me, I didn't mean to grow up?
It was an accident.
And I know you never meant to be 42 years old, having to go through this.
Having to miss him at the same time you're with him.
Having him gone at the same time he's there.
Having to stare at the first word you ever said and now not being able to say it.
And you can't remember despite your best efforts how when the word ‘daddy' became ‘dad'.
How two extra letters had and have all the safety of wavelessness.
We both know this, because you used to be my babysitter.
And when the nightmares would shake me awake, you'd make and take the time to tell me, daddy's going to be home soon.
Because to us that word meant security or bravery or "
Dear Mr.
Boogie man, you better not be under my bed or in my closet, because my daddy is going to deposit his foot so far up your ass, the interest alone will be enough that he can retire early.
We grew up in confessionals and were taught that a lie under any circumstance is wrong.
But how come the sacrifice of faith belonged to anything less than the virtue it takes to break one's own heart to ease another's descent into madness.
How can anyone dismiss love as if it wasn't the only reason to risk everything knowing for well you can't bring them back.
But there are no footprints or trails to track to find them.
All you can be there, and you are.
Despite your own husband, you wear your mother's wedding ring.
Because it was something he asked about when he saw you without it.
That was a bad day.
When you saw the way he couldn't understand how your hand held someone else's promise of forever.
And that it is never you he will remember, it's her.
And the only time you're ever sure if he still loves you, is when he asks: "
How is our baby?" And it may very well be that you break your own hearts too many times to count even on a good day.
Because you say: "
She's good, sweety.
She's happy."
