Ten minutes after Aaron walked out, Before the dust could even fall, Before we'd found our breath again From what had happened in those walls, You picked up your phone and told a story That absolutely wasn't true— That I'd called each one of your siblings And yelled at all of you. Jessica, that was a lie. That September night I sat there, While the accusations came. I barely spoke, I didn't fight them, Didn't answer blame with blame. Then weeks went by in silence, No angry words, no scenes, no fight Just one calm conversation- you, your dad, and me. And then came that November night. Why did you text my children? That's the question that remains. Why take something between us And carry it to them that way? What did you hope would happen When they read those words from you? Were you trying to make them turn on me? What were you hoping they would do? I won't pretend I know your reasons. Only you can answer why. But you told my children things about me That simply were not true. And I want to know why. They had nothing to do with the conflict. Not the shop, the video, or what we'd been through. They were my sons and my daughter, My family outside of you. So why reach into that circle While this circle was crashing down? Why carry accusations there Before I'd even turned around? Were you looking for agreement? Were you gathering them to your side? Were you trying to multiply the loss? I don't know. That's why I ask you 'why?'. And here's the part I can't get over, The irony I can't erase: You told them I had kicked you out, Then disappeared without a trace. You blocked us. You stopped inviting us. The family carried on without our names. We weren't welcome at the table— Yet you assigned me the blame. Why did you text my children? Why did they need your version then? Why send accusations outward Before asking our side of what had happened? What did you hope would happen When my children read those lines? Did you want them standing on your side? Did you hope they wouldn't stand on mine? I won't assign an answer To a question that is yours. But seventeen years deserved much better Than a verdict sent before I'd ever spoken for myself. And those last words to your father: "I love you both, but I will always Be there for my family." Your family. I wonder if you heard it When those words left your mouth. Because your father was standing On the other side of family now. The man who raised you. The man who loved you. The man who had always called you family. And somehow, in that sentence, He was standing outside. Just like me. Maybe someday you'll explain it. Maybe someday I'll understand. Maybe you'll tell me what you wanted From my children that night. Maybe you'll tell your father What you meant by family that day. Or maybe those two questions Will never go away. Why did you tell my children Things I'd never said or done? Why tell them I rejected you When I hadn't rejected anyone? And why push us from the family While insisting I'd cast you away? You said I'd kicked you from the family, But look at what came true— I never closed the door on you. You closed the door on us. Those contradictions live with me. I didn't put them there. Those were lies. I didn't call you. I didn't yell. I didn't cast you all aside. Weeks had passed in silence— The simple facts could testify. You told my children what I'd done When I knew I hadn't done those things. You can tell your version of the story— But that doesn't make it true. Somehow that became your story. So this is mine. Not an accusation about your motives. Not an answer I can't know. Just the question I've never been allowed to ask: Why did you text my children? And Jessica— Why didn't you ask for our side first?
