“I promise,” he says finally, his voice quiet but firm.
I nod, feeling relieved. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
After the meal, we move to the living room, and my gaze lands on a faded photograph in a frame on a table by the door.
It’s a picture of a younger Benedict with a woman, her hair falling softly over her face, her arm wrapped around a younger version of him as she looks down at him.
Even though her face isn’t fully visible, I can see the love in her expression.
I pick up the frame, my thumb running over the glass. “Is this your mom?” I ask, glancing up at him.
Benedict’s face lights up with a smile, and he nods. “Yeah, from a long time ago.”
I hesitate, unsure if I should bring it up. But the words slip out before I can stop myself. “Alex told me what happened. That it really hurt your dad when she left.”