My mother kissed my father with the same smile she carried when everything was still normal.
I had seen that smile a hundred times on the plain—aimed at nothing in particular, given away for free to a world that had already taken everything from her. Here she was giving it to a man. The light caught the edge of it and held it, soft and unguarded.
Her eyes told me what he meant to her in about two seconds, plainly, the way eyes do when nobody is watching them. The look was open, complete, the kind that leaves no room for argument.
Which made the question worse.
Why did you never tell me about him. Not once. Not one single time in twenty years.
Venna and I stood watching it in that high, strange dimension the libra put you in, where the world plays out at full scale and you stand somewhere just outside it—close enough to feel the heat of the sun, far enough that nothing could touch you.
