“I never locked Fiona out.”
“She was standing beside me.”
“You could have called.”
“I did.”
His mouth tightened.
“I was angry.”
“So was I.”
“That’s not the same.”
That sentence told me more than anything else he said that day.
His anger had always counted.
Mine had always been evidence that I was unreasonable.
He leaned back.
“Blaire, what do you actually want?”
I had asked myself that question for months.
At first, I wanted him to apologize.
Then I wanted him exposed.
Then, for a while, I wanted him to feel exactly as powerless as he had made me feel.
But sitting across from him, I understood how exhausting it would be to build the rest of my life around whether David suffered enough.
“I want Fiona stable,” I said. “I want what belongs to me financially. I want access to my own life without you being able to shut a door or freeze a card whenever you’re angry. And I want us to stop using our daughter to fight with each other.”
