When we stood to leave, he hesitated.
“Debra?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you’re going to be happy.”
I considered the words.
“I hope so, too.”
It was the truth.
I no longer wanted him to suffer simply because I had suffered.
I wanted to move forward without carrying his mistakes into every new day.
We said goodbye outside the café.
Then I drove home.
Not to a house I had won from another woman.
Not to a property I was using to punish my husband.
I drove home to the place where I had raised my children, planted flowers, celebrated birthdays, mourned my father, and learned more about myself than I had ever expected.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt that the future belonged to me again.
Three days later, I woke before sunrise.
The house was quiet.
I walked downstairs, made coffee, and stood by the kitchen window while the first light spread across the garden.
