“Seriously?”
She softened.
“I’m not trying to make it difficult.”
“Then sign.”
“We should talk.”
“We have.”
“Not about everything.”
I laughed.
“What else?”
Jennifer looked toward the envelope.
Then at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her eyes filled.
“I mean for everything.”
I stayed quiet.
She continued.
“I was cruel.”
“Yes.”
“I blamed you.”
“Yes.”
“I made you think you weren’t enough.”
I looked down.
“You did.”
Tears appeared.
“Can you forgive me?”
That question surprised me.
Months earlier, I would have wanted her to suffer.
Now?
The pain had changed shape.
“I forgive you.”
Jennifer stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed her face.
I nodded toward the papers.
“Now sign.”
The relief vanished.
“You just said that to get me to sign.”
“What?”
She stood.
“Who is she?”
I blinked.
“What are you talking about?”
“The woman.”
I stared.
“Rachel.”
So she knew.
“How do you know about Rachel?”
Jennifer looked away.
“I saw you at the diner.”
I almost smiled.
“And?”
“I checked your phone.”
My anger rose.
“You what?”
She folded her arms.
“I saw messages.”
“You went through my phone.”
“You used to go through my things.”
That stopped me.
She was right.
I had snooped.
Different time.
Same violation.
I exhaled.
“Fine.”
Jennifer stepped closer.
“Who is she?”
“Someone I’m dating.”
“The gym.”
“Yes.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
I stared.
“Wait.”
Something clicked.
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I laughed.
That angered her more.
“I didn’t think you would move on this fast.”
“This fast?”
“It’s been a year.”
“I know.”
She sat.
Her face changed.
“I guess I just never pictured you with someone else.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“Because you didn’t want me, you assumed nobody would.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you thought.”
Jennifer started to argue.
Stopped.
Then nodded.
“Maybe.”
I looked away.
“At least that’s honest.”
She took a breath.
“Kevin and I broke up.”
I looked back.
“When?”
“A while ago.”
I felt nothing dramatic.
No joy.
No vindication.
“Why?”
Jennifer shrugged.
“It wasn’t real.”
I waited.
“It was exciting.”
She continued.
“Then it became ordinary.”
The irony hung there.
She looked toward our old wedding photograph on the dresser.
“We were supposed to grow old here.”
I accidentally answered.
“Yeah.”
Jennifer cried.
“I messed everything up.”
I sat on the edge of the chair.
“We both let things go.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t do what I did.”
I appreciated that.
“Kevin wasn’t the real problem.”
She looked at me.
“We were already broken.”
“Maybe.”
“I gave up.”
“Yes.”
She reached for my hand.
“I think I made a mistake giving up on you.”
I pulled slightly.
“Jennifer.”
She tightened her grip.
Then kissed me.
I froze.
For half a second, memory took over.
My wife.
Our bedroom.
Familiar skin.
Familiar scent.
Then Kevin entered the image.
Rachel entered next.
The divorce papers.
The year.
Everything.
I gently pushed Jennifer away.
“No.”
She stared.
“Matt.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“You don’t get to do this now.”
Her expression broke.
“What?”
“You wanted Kevin.”
“That’s over.”
“Exactly.”
I stood.
“I’m not the emergency backup husband.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It feels like it.”
She reached again.
I stepped back.
“Do you still love me?” she asked.
I did not answer immediately.
That hesitation gave her hope.
“Be honest.”
I thought about our wedding.
Ethan and Grace being born.
Years of good memories.
Vacations.
Arguments.
Laughing in bed.
The night she wore the dress.
I loved that life.
I loved who she had been inside it.
But loving memory is not the same thing as wanting the marriage back.
“No.”
Jennifer’s face changed.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You do.”
“Not that way.”
The words landed.
The same words she had once used on me.
Her eyes filled.
“You’re saying that to hurt me.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
She cried harder.
I stood there.
Then something honest occurred to me.
“Maybe part of me feels the balance.”
She looked furious.
“But I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.”
I paused.
“I know exactly what that feels like.”
Jennifer wiped her face.
I continued.
“You gave up on me.”
“You cheated.”
“You mocked things I was already insecure about.”
“You wanted the divorce.”
I looked at her.
“And through all of it, I never tried to destroy you.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I didn’t tell the kids.”
“I didn’t make custody war.”
“I let you date Kevin.”
“I kept showing up for Ethan and Grace.”
Another pause.
“You looked at me and saw nothing worth fighting for.”
Jennifer whispered, “I was wrong.”
“Maybe.”
She looked up.
“You’re different now.”
There it was.
“More confident.”
I waited.
“You go places.”
“Do things.”
“You’re healthy.”
Then she said:
“This is the man I wanted.”
That sentence freed me.
Not because it complimented me.
Because she still did not understand.
She wanted the transformed version because she had rejected the original.
But I no longer hated the original.
That man had been loyal.
Responsible.
A good father.
Hardworking.
Imperfect.
Yes.
But not worthless.
“I was always me.”
Jennifer stared.
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You changed.”
“I improved.”
I nodded.
“But I didn’t become worthy when I lost weight.”
She said nothing.
“That’s the part you still don’t understand.”
I picked up my keys.
“Sign the papers.”
She cried as I left.
Six months later, the divorce became final.