I turned toward him.
“I am not angry that you have a son you never knew about.”
“I know.”
“No. Listen.”
He did.
“I am angry that you found out you had a granddaughter and decided I wasn’t entitled to know.”
He looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
We went home a day early.
Our anniversary trip ended without champagne, photographs, or the dinner reservation Robert had made for our final night.
Three days later, Ariella texted me.
“I hope it’s okay that I have your number. Robert gave it to me.”
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then another arrived.
“I didn’t come looking for him to ruin anything. I had already lost my dad and my grandmother. I just wanted to know if there was anyone else left.”
I called her.
We talked for nearly two hours.
Mostly about Mike.
A little about Robert.
Nothing about the state of my marriage.
That’s between Robert and me.
Ariella and I are meeting for coffee next week.
Robert isn’t coming. He knows.
For 40 years, I thought our honeymoon hotel represented the beginning of our life together.
