Chapter 18
Adrian returned after six months.
Not to ask for marriage.
Not to ask for forgiveness.
He came to deliver a box.
Inside were every letter I had written him during our courtship.
“I kept them,” he said.
“I thought you might want them back.”
I looked at the box.
“Why?”
“Because they belong to the woman who wrote them. Not the man who lied to her.”
I let him in.
We sat in the kitchen I had painted yellow.
He looked around.
“It feels like you.”
“You barely knew me.”
“I know.”
That honesty hurt less now.
He continued.
“I’m trying to know you without needing anything from you.”
I studied him.
“What do you need?”
“To apologize without being forgiven.”
I said nothing.
He looked down.
“I’m sorry I loved you selfishly. I’m sorry I hid behind fear. I’m sorry I let my family stand close enough to hurt you. I’m sorry I made you question whether any part of us was real.”
My eyes burned.
“Was it?”
He looked up.
“Yes. But real does not mean clean.”
That was the truest thing he had ever said.
I let him leave without an answer.
But after he drove away, I opened the box of letters.
In them, I found myself younger.
Hopeful.
Funny.
Brave in ways I had forgotten.
May you like
The letters did not return my marriage.
They returned parts of me.
