“Tell him about the specialist in Columbus.”

My father turned his head slowly toward my mother.

His eyes, usually so clear and steady, looked clouded, like the gray winter sky outside.

“What specialist, Clara?” he asked.

My mother did not answer.

She looked down at her orthopedic shoes, her shoulders trembling under her cardigan.

“The one who told us five years ago that my nerves were perfectly fine,” Megan said.

“The one who said it was psychological, or that I was just making it up.”

She looked at me, a cruel little smile touching the corner of her mouth.

“But Mom didn’t want him to tell Dad that.”

“She told the doctor we wanted a second opinion, and then we never went back.”

I looked at my mother, waiting for her to deny it, waiting for her to find some excuse.

But she only pressed her back harder against the doorframe, her face pale.

“Clara,” my father said, his voice rising again, a low rumble from his chest.

“Is this true?”

“Arthur, you don’t understand,” my mother sobbed, finally breaking.

“She was going to leave.”