[ WP ] You can see the darkest secret of everyone you meet . As you enter your house , expecting to see the usual abusive father story of your spouse , you stop ; it has changed .

The house is dark and quiet as I climb the front steps. It is usually warmly lit and full of the clamoring sounds of life: pots and pans clanging and endearingly off-key singing as Seth cooks dinner, the shouts and screams and cringe-inducing crashes of the twins as they `` help'' but really just horseplay underfoot. Usually, at least one of the three will notice me coming and run to open the door, and I will be greeted with shrieks of delight, warm hugs, and the scent of roasting chicken, rosemary, and toddler. 
 
 Today, it is silent, and the door stays shut. 
 
 I fish in my pockets for the key that I almost forgot I carried. It seems like years since I had to use it last, and my hand trembles a little as I push it into the keyhole. 
 
 But there is nothing to be worried about. I'm psyching myself out for no reason; Seth probably just took the girls to catch a movie and get ice cream. 
 
 So why has n't he texted me back? Returned my calls? 
 
 We have a full-honesty, leave-out-no-detail policy between us now. The guilt floods back in an icy wave when I remember why we agreed on it. The quiet meet-ups, the secret sex, the hurt in Seth's eyes when I could bear it no longer and confessed. It was when he forgave me when I knew how much our love meant to him. It was when he almost did n't, that moment of dread, of terror, of shame, that I realized how much it meant to me. 
 
 As these memories, full of pain and regret, rush back to me, I want to run to him more than ever. I want to lose myself in his arms, to see beautiful little Kat and Kirstie who are the living proof of our love, to just sit with them and let the love wash over us. 
 
 But as I finally get past the front door and make my way to the kitchen, I see that Seth has n't left so much as a note on the fridge to let me know where they've gone. The kitchen itself is empty, and more alarmingly, spotless. There are no books and toys scattered on the floor, no mostly-eaten snacks left on the counter. There is no sign of the mess that I now realize has become such a comfort to me. 
 
 As I stand there in the empty kitchen, a faint noise interrupts the silence. It sounds again a moment later, a noise from the second floor. I dash upstairs, and as I take the carpeted stairs two by two, the noise clarifies into a low sobbing, coming from our room. 
 
 I know now that it is Seth, and even as my panicked mind gives a sigh of relief, my pounding heart fills with a sympathetic anguish. 
 
 This is not the first time. From the very first, entirely accidental moment we shared, when my hand brushed against his as I reached for the coffee I'd ordered in that crowded, tiny cafe, I knew he needed someone to rely on. Someone to support him as he waged his then-losing war against the confusion, the agony, the love and the hate that were his relationship with his father. Someone to wrap comforting arms around him when he woke up screaming *daddy please stop, no more please it hurts so bad*, his body slick with sweat, in the middle of the night. Someone to stay with him as he cried himself back to sleep, a grown man whose darkest secret was the pain he'd endured at his father's hands. 
 
 Slowly, haltingly, he had told me. About the scars on his back, a physical memory of his father's second-favorite belt. About the overpowering stench of cheap whiskey that was Seth's signal to run and hide, terrified, in kitchen cupboards, in locked bathrooms, under the bed, *anywhere*. 
 
 About how his father cried afterwards, every time. About how his father would lovingly wipe away the blood and gently daub soothing creams on Seth's raw flesh. About how they would go out for root beer floats when it stopped hurting as much, and the love and the warmth in his father's smile as he handed Seth the tall, frosty glass, wet with condensation. 
 
 About how he'd put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, after that last root beer float almost twenty years ago. 
 
 I never told him that I knew it all before he said a word. That is the only thing I will ever keep from him. 
 
 Even now, as I slowly ease open the door to our room, I know that he does n't need to be hurt any more, to know that his darkest secret had been exposed to a perfect stranger. 
 
 He is huddled on the floor, sitting in a pool of shadow with his back against our bed. I step towards him, but pause for the slightest moment as he raises his tear-streaked face to me. Even in the evening twilight, I can see his bloodshot eyes and the fear dancing madly within them. 
 
 `` E-eruh-ric,'' he chokes out. `` E-eric, I'm suh-so s-scared.'' 
 
 I close the distance between us in two long strides, almost tripping over the empty whiskey bottle on the floor, and grab his shoulders and kiss his forehead. 
 
 But even as I do so, I flinch away. 
 
 I draw back and our eyes meet once more, and this time, the fear is in mine, too. 
 
 I grab his hand, haul him to reluctant feet, and drag him to the girls' room as quickly as he will go. 
 
 The twins are sleeping soundly in the bed they share, but as I draw the blanket back, I see the welts that criss-cross their backs, welts that I know will match Seth's second-favorite belt, and a low moan escapes my throat. 
 
 ***** 
 
 soz 4 formatting/speling erors, on phone. 
 edits: how can do format
