“I don’t want another chance.”
“I know.”
“But I also don’t want to spend the next twenty years angry.”
“Okay.”
“So yes. I forgive you.”
After another pause, he admitted, “I miss you.”
I looked around the peaceful kitchen: one coffee cup, basil at the window, a blue towel over the oven handle, a shopping list written entirely by me. Peace wasn’t the absence of sound. It was the absence of someone else’s disorder.
“I hope that gets easier,” I said.
He laughed sadly. “That’s such a Claire answer.”
“Probably.”
