Ashlynn

“She was here last night. With Colby.” Your mother doesn’t soften it. “Ashlynn.” Your ex-wife. The person who learned how to say things so they sound finished. Colby—your younger brother—used to sit through your silences without asking what they meant. You press your thumb into the edge of the counter. “How long.” “I don’t know,” she says. “But she talked. About your marriage.” “Of course she did.” A breath. “She said you hurt her. That it’s why things ended.” You close your eyes, not surprised, just hearing it placed somewhere new. “That’s not true.” “She sounded certain.” “She always does,” you say. “That’s how she makes it hold.” Silence settles. Later, you call Colby. “You’re with her.” “Yes.” “And you believe her.” “I believe what she went through,” he says, steady. “You weren’t there.” “No,” he says. “But she was.” You press harder into the counter. “She told you I raised my hand.” A pause. Small. Enough. “She told me enough.” “I never did that,” you say. “Not once. You know me.” He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s quieter. “I thought I did.” That lands differently. “You’ve known me your whole life,” you say. “And she lived with you,” he replies. “That matters more.” You almost tell him about the night she first said it—half-angry, watching your face, like she was testing whether it could become true if she said it clean enough. You remember thinking it wouldn’t stick. You don’t tell him that. “Alright,” you say. He hesitates. “That’s it?” You look at your hand, still pressed white against the counter. “It would cost you,” you start, then stop.