And he could not take all of it away.
My marriage had changed beyond recognition, but I was still a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a friend, and a woman with choices left to make.
One evening, Daniel called.
We had been living separately for some time, and our conversations had become more practical and less emotional.
“I’ve been thinking about that night,” he said.
“So have I.”
“I wish you hadn’t shown those messages in front of everyone.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Of course you do.”
“I was humiliated.”
I waited.
Then he added, more quietly, “But I know I caused the situation. I know I hurt you.”
It was the closest he had come to accepting responsibility without immediately defending himself.
“I hope you learn something from it,” I said.
“Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?”
I considered the question.
“Forgiveness isn’t the same as returning to the life we had. I don’t know what the future holds, Daniel. But I know I cannot rebuild trust simply because you regret losing it.”
