Sometimes he spoke with genuine remorse. Other times, he seemed more upset about the consequences than the betrayal itself.
I stopped trying to determine which version was the real one.
Instead, I focused on myself.
For the first time in decades, I began making plans that had nothing to do with Daniel’s preferences.
I enrolled in a pottery class I had always wanted to try. I started meeting my sister for coffee every Thursday. I visited an old friend who lived near the coast and spent an entire afternoon walking beside the water without checking the time.
I also began writing down memories from my life.
Some were painful. Others made me laugh.
I wrote about our first apartment, our children’s childhoods, and the small victories that had once made me proud.
I refused to let the final chapter of my marriage erase every good chapter that came before it.
