We spoke about my divorce with her father, about Arthur, and about how sometimes, in trying so hard not to repeat your parents’ mistakes, you end up walking straight into them from another door.
A few days later, she asked me something I hadn’t expected.
“Did you love him?” she said.
I thought about it.
“I thought I did,” I said finally. “I loved who I thought he was — the man who asked me questions about my dreams, who made me tea when I was sick. But I think now… I loved the quiet. Not him.”
A few days later,
she asked me
something I hadn’t expected.
She nodded slowly. “Same.”
We laughed a little at that.
It was the kind of laughter that comes after grief — shaky and soft, but real.
In the weeks that followed, I watched her begin to heal. Not just from Arthur, but from everything. The pressure, the expectations, and the image of perfection we had both been raised to chase.
One day, she told me, “Thank you… for not letting him ruin my life.”
And for the first time since she’d said Arthur’s name a year earlier, the tightness in my chest finally loosened.
And in my own heart, something began to settle.
In the weeks that followed,
I watched her begin to heal.