“It’s not just tonight,” I said. “It’s 12 years ago and every echo of it that’s still in my chest. It’s you choosing to handle this alone instead of trusting me enough to risk a hard conversation.” My voice shook.
“I don’t know if I can come back from that.”
“The party’s over. Please enjoy the food, but… I need to go.”
She walked past Marcus without looking at him and stopped in front of me. “If you’re really done,” she whispered, “I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me.
But please, at least talk to me one more time. Not here. Not with him watching.
Just… us.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just nodded toward the door. We left together in silence, the murmur of confused guests and clinking glasses fading behind us.
In the parking lot, under the yellow streetlights, we finally stopped.
We talked for hours that night—first in the car, then at home. There was yelling, crying, long stretches where neither of us said anything because we were too tired to form sentences. But there was honesty, more than we’d had in years.
The next morning, I didn’t go to see a lawyer.
