These were different.
They came from somewhere deep inside her, from a place she had kept hidden for decades.
She bent forward, covering her face with both hands.
“I thought I had to be perfect,” she sobbed. “I thought if I could just make him happy, if I could stop making mistakes, he would stop hurting me.”
I moved closer, but I did not touch her until she reached for me.
When she did, I wrapped my arms around her.
She clung to me as though she were trying to hold together something that had been breaking for years.
“I am so sorry,” I whispered.
She shook her head against my shoulder.
“You didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you apologizing?”
I swallowed hard.
“Because I wish someone had been there to tell you that you deserved better.”
She cried harder.
And I held her.
I held her until the music in the living room stopped.
