Since then, he has kept calling, offering apologies that always circle back to his own fear. He says he panicked and didn’t know what he was doing. But he knew enough to bring a lawyer to my hospital bed. He knew enough to move Tiffany into our home while I was unconscious. He assumed I would quietly absorb the damage the way I always had before. He was wrong.
Now I’m back in my old apartment—not with the same furniture, body, or life, but with the same narrow kitchen and the same tiny balcony where the afternoon sunlight still falls in a way I love. The divorce papers are signed. The court hearing is approaching.
