I meant the apology.
I sat at the dining table with coffee and typed:
I believe you are sorry things became painful. I’m sorry you’re struggling. I love you, Sarah, and I love Leo. But we cannot go back to the way things were. I will not resume paying your household expenses. If you want a relationship with me, it has to be a relationship, not a financial arrangement.
I paused.
Then added:
If you would like to meet for coffee sometime, just you and me, I’m open to that.
I sent it.
Three days passed before she answered.
Okay.
We met the following Saturday.
A neutral café halfway between our homes.
Sarah arrived five minutes late.
No designer bag.
No SUV.
She looked thinner.
Older.
She sat across from me.
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “You really changed.”
“No.”
She frowned.
“I stopped doing something.”
“What?”
“Making myself responsible for whether you were comfortable with me.”
She looked down.
“I hate how everything happened.”
“So do I.”
“David says you’re trying to split us up.”
“I’m not.”
“He thinks you blame him.”
“I blame both of you for the message.”
Her eyes filled.
“I wrote it.”
I stared.
“All of it?”
“He suggested some wording.”
