He took longer to answer.
“Some days.”
It was perhaps our most honest conversation.
He turned to leave, then stopped.
“Lauren?”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry.”
He’d apologized before.
Through letters, mediation, flowers, and expensive gifts.
But every earlier apology concealed a request.
Come back.
Withdraw the filing.
Protect my reputation.
Tell me I’m not terrible.
This time, he asked for nothing.
I believed him.
“Thank you.”
His expression shifted slightly, as though he’d expected forgiveness or absolution.
I couldn’t provide either on demand.
I’d learned too much about giving before
