“Because it needs fixing.”
That was true, but not in any way a child could understand.
He also asked about Eric.
“Is Daddy mad at me?”
The first time he asked, I had to turn away under the pretense of opening the refrigerator because my face gave me up.
I went back, crouched to his level, and said, “No. None of this is your fault.”
He studied me carefully. “Because I told?”
“Yes,” I said. “And telling was right.”
Children return to the same wound over and over, not to hurt themselves, but to see whether the answer changes. His didn’t. Mine couldn’t.
Weeks later, I was allowed back into the house briefly with an escort to collect personal belongings. The hazmat cleanup had been completed. The crawlspace entrance had been photographed, documented, dismantled, exposed. Without secrecy, it looked smaller than I had imagined. Cheap plywood. Concealed seams. A filthy passage ending in boxes, residue, and concrete.
What stunned me most was not the size of it.
It was how close it had always been.
