Mason looked down for a long moment before finally speaking.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to scare your mom.”
The room went silent.
He explained that years ago, my mom had reported his father for abusing him and Caleb. Their father was arrested, and Mason blamed my family for everything that happened afterward—the foster homes, the separation, the anger he carried for years.
“So you burned our house down?” I whispered.
Tears filled his eyes. “I didn’t think it would spread that fast. I thought everyone would get out.”
My chest felt hollow.
For ten years, I believed the fire was a tragic accident. But it wasn’t. Someone chose it.
And Caleb had carried that truth alone since he was nine years old.
On the drive home, neither of us spoke much.
Finally, Caleb broke the silence.
“I know you probably hate me.”
I looked out the window for a while before answering.
“No,” I said softly. “I think you were just a kid who got scared.”
He nodded, eyes wet.
That night at prom, I thought Caleb gave me one perfect memory before everything fell apart.
But strangely, after the truth came out, things finally stopped feeling broken.
Because for the first time since the fire, I finally understood it wasn’t my scars people noticed most.
It was my survival.