We talked about my divorce from her father. About Arthur. And about how, sometimes, when you’re so determined not to repeat your parents’ mistakes, you end up making the same ones—just through a different door.
A few days later, she asked me something I hadn’t expected.
“Did you love him?”
I took a moment before answering.
“I thought I did,” I said at last. “I loved the version of him I believed in—the man who asked about my dreams, who made me tea when I was sick. But I think now… I loved the quiet he brought. Not him.”
She nodded slowly. “Me too.”
