things you do. But you’re going to have to figure it out without me. For a while, anyway. Maybe a long while.”
“Are you going to hate me forever?”
I thought about it. I really thought about it.
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “I’m just done.”
I hung up.
Here’s the thing about people who come crawling back. They always come at the worst possible time. And they always think they’re the first one to think of it.
Michael came back again in December. Two weeks before Christmas.
It was raining. A cold, hard, sideways rain. I was in the kitchen making hot chocolate for the kids. The doorbell rang.
He was standing on the porch, soaking wet. He was holding a bouquet of roses that were getting
beaten to pieces by the rain. He’d lost weight. His coat was too thin for the weather.
