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Then she said his name.
“It’s Arthur.”
“You know who,” she replied softly.
My throat tightened.
“My Arthur?”
She nodded, blushing, her smile stretched wide and unwavering. “It just happened. He reached out. We talked. He’s always understood me—and since you’re not together anymore…”
After that, her words blurred together. I could hear her speaking, but nothing was truly registering. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that she was dating my ex-husband—now a forty-year-old man, sixteen years older than her. It felt wrong on every level. She had no business being with him.
I tried to speak, to slow things down, but she cut straight through my silence with the kind of ultimatum only a child can deliver to a parent. It was sharp, unemotional, and fueled by the unshakable certainty young women have when they believe they’re defending love rather than repeating a familiar cycle.
“Either you accept this,” she said, “or I’m cutting you out of my life.”
I was stunned. I should have yelled, pleaded, done anything—but I didn’t. Losing her wasn’t an option. Not after everything we’d been through.
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