the realization that I could keep begging him to return or finally close the door.
“Because I knew if I waited until morning, everyone would talk me out of leaving.”
“So you made it impossible to go back.”
“Yes.”
His gaze fell. I opened the door, but his voice followed.
“I’m sorry.”
After three years, months of doubt, five absences, and an affair, those words still hurt. They couldn’t alter the decision I’d made.
“I believe you,” I answered.
“I believe you’re sorry.”
Hope briefly appeared in his eyes, and
