me. Every page. In your handwriting. It took you a whole week.”
His face softened. “I remember.”
“I thought that meant you were the kind of man who fixes what he breaks,” I said. “That’s why I
married you. Because you rewrote my notes.”
“I am,” he said. “I am that man. Let me fix this.”
“Some things you can’t rewrite, Michael,” I said. “You can’t spill coffee on ten years of marriage and
just copy it over in neat handwriting.”
He started to cry.
“I’m not going to keep you from the kids,” I said. “You’re their father. They love you. You’ll see
them every other weekend and on Wednesdays, and we’ll figure out holidays. We’ll be polite. We’ll go to their soccer games and sit on the same bleachers. I’ll never say a bad word about you in front of them.” I stood up. “But you’re not coming home.”
