I drove back to the motel and called my husband. He answered on the second ring, voice cautious. We’d been living in a kind of emotional winter for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” I said before he could speak. “For the years. For the waiting.
For choosing them over us.”
Silence filled the line, and then his exhale sounded like someone setting down a heavy box. “What do you want now?” he asked softly. I looked at my hands—older than they should’ve been, but steady.
“I want a life that doesn’t require me to bleed to prove I love someone,” I said. “I want to rebuild. With you, if you still want me.”
He didn’t answer right away, because real forgiveness isn’t quick.
But when he spoke, his voice was real in a way my family’s never had been. “Come home,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
That night, I ate a proper meal for the first time in weeks.
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