Michael nodded.
“I am.”
We left separately.
For months, that was how things remained.
Michael rented a small apartment twelve minutes from my house.
He went to therapy.
Then, after several weeks, I did too.
Eventually we attended sessions together.
Not to save the marriage.
To discover whether anything worth saving remained.
Some sessions ended with laughter.
Others with me sitting in my car afterward furious.
Healing was not beautiful.
It was repetitive.
Awkward.
Sometimes humiliating.
Yet gradually, I began recognizing the man I had loved without pretending he was the man I had imagined.
Then, seven months after my birthday, a letter arrived.
Not from Daniel.
Not from Michael.
From Rebecca.
She was awaiting sentencing after cooperating with investigators.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I opened it.
The first sentence made my heart stop.
Margaret, there is one truth Michael still does not know, and it concerns your son.
