“I heard you’re doing well.”
“I am.”
“I also heard you started a business.”
“I did.”
He smiled faintly.
“I always knew you were capable.”
I almost laughed.
“You didn’t act like it.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
For once, he didn’t argue.
He didn’t defend himself.
He simply said, “I’m sorry.”
I believed that he meant it.
But forgiveness didn’t mean returning to the life we had.
It meant I no longer needed him to understand what he had done.
Before we left, he asked, “Are you happy?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I didn’t think you’d be.”
“Neither did I.”
That was the last time we ever had a conversation about my life.
Three years after the divorce, Lily was ten.
She had grown taller.
She had lost two front teeth and gotten them back.
She complained about homework.
She loved baking.
And she had developed a habit of stealing the warmest piece of bread from the kitchen before dinner.
