The vow didn’t create my love for Ruth.
My love for Stephanie taught me I had more love to give.
The vow just showed me where to put it.
Ruth listened.
I could see her processing it.
But she was seventeen.
Wounded.
And sometimes, even the truth can’t compete with hurt.
She still went to prom alone.
And she didn’t come home afterward.
I waited all night at the kitchen table, staring at my phone like I could will it to ring.
John fell asleep on the couch around three.
I couldn’t.
At dawn, Stephanie broke first.
She came into the kitchen with swollen eyes and a blotchy face.
She told me she’d overheard me on the phone with my sister months earlier.
She’d heard about the prayer.
About the promise.
About how grateful I was for both my girls.
Then she admitted what I dreaded.
She’d twisted it during a fight with Ruth.
Words meant to wound.
Words meant to win.
And she never thought Ruth would actually leave.
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