I waited.
“He told me my father had people watching you.”
My hands went cold.
“He said if I kept seeing you, they would make your life difficult. Your job. Your family. Anything they could reach.”
I shook my head.
“That sounds insane.”
“It was.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I didn’t want to.”
Thomas leaned back.
“Then he showed me photographs.”
My mouth went dry.
“Of me?”
“Of you leaving work. Going home. Meeting friends.”
I stared at him.
Thomas’s eyes were wet now.
“I was 34, and I thought I was strong. I could fight. I could compete. I could stand in front of a crowd and not feel afraid.”
He gave a sad laugh.
“But when someone threatened you, I panicked.”
“So you disappeared.”
He nodded.
“I thought if I vanished, they would lose interest in you.”
I felt anger rise through the shock.
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I know.”
“You let me think I meant nothing to you.”
Thomas flinched.
“I know.”
I stood.
For 50 years, I had imagined this conversation.
In some versions, I slapped him.
In others, I forgave him immediately.
Reality was messier.
I was furious.
And heartbroken.
